Practically Perfect, Penned and Priced
by Margo Duncan
Summary: Following his narrations at Cherry Tree Lane, Bert wanted to tell Mary's story to the world  but this mysterious woman's tale consists of a facet that even her dearest friend could never know: a debt that must be paid. For the Walt Disney movie. UPDATED
1. A Glance Backwards

A Quick Note Before I Begin . . .

Some time ago, at the start of the year, an idea for a Mary Poppins oneshot sprang to mind. In the weeks that followed its' inception, the originally planned eight hundred words or so decided to put down roots and blossomed into a full-fledged story. Over the past six months it has grown into what begins below.

I had originally wanted to wait to post this story until it was written in its entirety. I have, however, become very keen to start things along. I was recently halted by technical difficulties that prevented me from getting a fanfiction account, but a kind friend of mine who knew of my interests and whose own account long lay dormant allowed me to take over hers, and so I am able to begin. I do assure you that things are for the most part mapped out and I do promise to continue at a steady pace should there be interest out there for a continuing Mary Poppins fic. I appreciate anyone who has read thus far, and would certainly be grateful of anyone who followed the story along. I will not leave you hanging if I am able to help it.

As a side note of sorts, I would just like to mention again that this fic is based entirely on the Walt Disney film, what with my knowledge of the play as limited as it is. I am in general rather new at this fic business, so I do ask for pardon in advance. Things may seem odd and confusing at first, but hopefully as Mary Poppins' past unravels, things will become clearer. I will do my absolute best, and hopefully an obsession with this movie will help me through. Thank you very much! I hope you enjoy!

-Margo Duncan

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not the owner of the Walt Disney film _Mary Poppins_. Characters of said film used below are not used as part of any profitable venture. No infringement is intended.

* * *

"Is there a reason you're out here in the middle of night and storm?" The green parrot inquired.

"Not particularly," Mary answered, tightening her grasp on the handle of her umbrella. There _was_ a reason she was standing in the frigid air, numerous reasons in fact, and in her mind they were all very good. But she had no desire to voice her thoughts, especially when she was aware that the bird on the end of her umbrella already knew what was on her mind. After a long moment of deep, painful recollection, however, Mary found herself speaking out - addressing no one in particular - to spite herself. "We came terribly close at the Banks' residence, didn't we?"

"Indeed, Mary Poppins. Indeed. What had been said? 'It's no wonder that it's Mary that we love?' 'You're our favorite person?' Dreadfully close, to be sure."

"And that's not close en-" The woman had tried to direct a question to the parrot, but he interrupted her before it could be properly asked.

"No," he answered. "I am sure you are familiar by now with what is acceptable and what isn't. Long ago you were informed that a direct 'I love you' is required, from anyone, so long as it is truly intended and no affectation or provocation on your part induces it. You know the allotted time period that was given. Nothing has changed since then, except the amount of time you have to complete the task - there's not much of that left."

"It's not as simple as you seem to think, you know. After weighing me down with your presence for so long, I was sure _you_ would be familiar with _that_ by now." Mary Poppins had always tried to be as patient as possible with her domineering overseer, but as time went by it became more difficult to mollify him. Every passing day weakened her, and the decline would only continue until there was nothing left of the practically perfect nanny. That time seemed much closer than Mary had ever imagined, and "practically perfect" was not as easy to come by as it had once been. It was this thought, the concealed inner grief, and the agonizing realizations of what could have been - what had come so close to becoming hers only to ultimately elude her - that sent her out onto her little balcony amidst the vicious pounding of unnumbered raindrops.

"I never meant to say that it was," the parrot insisted, "merely that - oh, how would you phrase it? 'People who get their feet wet must learn to take their medicine.' That medicine isn't always rum punch-flavored, Mary Poppins."

"There's still a chance," Mary insisted, trying to believe it for herself. "There is still this little boy, there's still- hope. My time hasn't expired yet."

"Ah, but I am not the one in pursuit of being convinced," he explained. That was all Mary could tolerate to hear.

"Oh, would you please stop your squawking? You're bound to wake someone." With no further thought, she pressed his beak shut - in a fashion much gentler than she would have liked to - and sighed. How could one possibly waste hours on sleeping when they had so few left? It was a necessary evil, Mary relented, and hastily collapsed the umbrella before scurrying back into her room as quietly as was possible, managing to stay remotely dry. Before retiring, she peeked in the adjoining room. Gilbert, her latest charge, was still sound asleep, unaffected by the rain the fell violently to the roof. She couldn't help but smile as she turned away. He seemed to have the potential to be taught, to understand, and to return the favor of being aided. Mary had entertained the same idea countless of times over the years, though, with everyone she had encountered. Everyone had appeared to be at least a bit loving, but it had never showed through any of them entirely.

Perhaps Mary's greatest upset was her previous assignment at Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane. Jane and Michael Banks had truly suggested that they loved her, but they had never voiced it. And then of course, there was right there with them, Bert.

Mary could think no more about her tumultuous situation. She retreated under the covers of her bed, seeking temporary refuge from the cruel world around her. The agony, however, would continue to follow her, even into her dreams.

_"This is entirely your fault! Do you dare to deny it?" The tall man asked, throwing young Mary into the plush velvet of the armchair._

_"N-no, father. I'm sorry! I never meant to-"_

_"I refuse to go, however, without punishing you first. And so it will be dealt accordingly, here and now. Your mother may have thought you to be the most perfect child there was, but I have my doubts. Still, I tend to believe that your mother was a sound judge of character at least most of the time, and so I am giving you a chance to prove yourself. If you can substantiate that you are capable of being loved for who you are, you can live your life fully. You don't know it, Mary, but you've already been enchanted. You've been given all sorts of ridiculous little abilities that can only make you all the more loveable. This is to show that I am not an unreasonable man. Between this generous gift and the nature of your being, if you are half as perfect as your mother insisted you were, then you will be able to live the life she intended you to. But the main point of this spell, Mary, has been to monitor you. Indeed, if no one is able to tell you that they love you before your time runs out, you'll die! And you'll join your mother, who resultantly would have died in vain. This is your only chance to prove to the world that you deserved to live, that you deserved your mother's death! Am I clear?"_

_Little Mary could hardly comprehend. She had been enchanted as a way to meet her fate, though her father quite obviously wished her dead? It was a lot for her ten-year-old mind to take in, and had she not been so afraid to, she would have burst out crying. It hardly seemed liked the time for such, however. There was no time to be confused, either, only to accept it. "H-how long until time runs out?" _

_"You have the same amount of time your mother had. Not a second more." With that, he rushed out of the room, never to be seen by his little girl again._

On the other side of London, Mary's friend was dreaming, though he was still awake. . .

The hour had grown late indeed, but Bert could not be swayed from his position. He sat propped against a wall of his flat's little alcove, letting the sound of raindrops overhead entrance him as the quill in his hand glided across the notebook's crisp pages. The day before had been tiring, and the day ahead undoubtably would be equally as exhausting. It seemed that no matter what changes altered the course of Bert's life, he was always destined to be a very busy man. But something had been preying on his mind, a story - so many stories, really, and the opportunity to tell them had to be snatched up no matter what hour was chiming. No, Bert couldn't possibly expect to write everything in one evening, but a start was absolutely necessary. If only a beginning could be forged as smoothly as the paper he scribbled across.Unable to organize his thoughts, he released exactly what occupied his thoughts quite simply.

**Mary Poppins. I've crossed paths with many a character in my day and I can say that I've never met anyone as perplexing or delightful. She's a charming woman, no doubt, especially what with all of those antics of hers. But, oh! Mary's no magician! She'd be the first to tell you that, and for as skeptical as I might have been at first, I certainly believe her. Over the years I've come to realize she's just as perfectly practical as she is practically perfect. But I'm straying from the point, aren't I? A story is waiting and I'll jolly well try to tell it. Now, while I've been fortunate enough to have dozens of encounters with Mary Poppins over the years, there's just as much that I don't know as I know. I suppose some mysteries are only revealed in her mind, but I'll start from the very beginning, more than ten years ago now.**

He sighed inwardly, lifting his pen from the surface. Oh, it all sounded so ridiculous! Certainly Mary Poppins and her tales delighted many, and Bert believed very much that their past was quite an interesting one. But why try to record it all? Who would truly care? And then it dawned on him.

Bert would care. It had all began so very long ago, and though he could recall nearly everything clearly in his mind, Bert wanted to make certain that the memories of his dear friend were retained forever. So many wonderful things had happened over the years. He could never commit such a sin as to forget any of the people, the places, or the situations they had encountered. No matter what, Mary had been far too kind to him for the entirety of their acquaintanceship for him to allow such a thing to happen. But taking a glance back at how the events of their friendship had unfolded, a part of him could only wonder if Mary would care at all either way.

And while Bert may have speculated, Mary Poppins did indeed cherish her friend. She always had and would until the day she died. And as both of them knew well, it was the young woman's kind-heartedness that had brought the them together in the first place a decade before.


	2. The First Memory

Dear Readers,

I should like to thank you very much for your outstanding response to the first chapter! It means so much to me. I would like to especially thank JulieFan25, literaryfreak, Gabrielle, nofearonlylove, shrimps1995, and Len for all of their contributions. You're the reason that Chapter 2 is here so soon! While I can't guarantee updates this swiftly all the time, you guys truly compelled me to move things along, and after completing another chapter, I decided to put this one up. I assure you that I didn't rush this one, as it's been written for quite some time now. In any case, I figured you all should get a look and decide how bad I muddled the beginning of Mary and Bert's friendship. I do hope that you like it! Most of their past encounters have been inspired from subtle hints I feel both of them drop in the movie. In any case, I do admit that I read into things entirely too much.

But enough of my blabbering. Here we pick up shortly after where we last left off. Thank you all so much again! I hope you enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

He was just a nameless chimney sweep, though to be completely fair Bert did not have a stronger inclination as to what Mary's identity was. Still residing with her beloved Uncle Albert, Mary was just shy of turning eighteen, and for that matter, just approaching the threshold of a career of her own. She was young, yes, but not nearly as blithe as a girl her age was expected to be. Despite the hospitality her uncle had expended to her, the years Mary spent in his care had been toilsome. Though, truly, he could not be at all blamed for such a thing. He was not responsible for the indecency of the tendencies of so many human beings, the people who Mary Poppins genuinely tried to give her heart to only to be disregarded by. Perhaps other girls her age did not worry about such things, though surely no other girl her age was relying so heavily on the abilities of her heart.

But beyond all of this the day she met Bert was a day that Mary remembered clearly; it seemed every element of it had been recorded in her mind forever, right down to the very dress she wore. Bert had even admitted she looked beautiful in it, those many years later of course, the day they leapt into his drawing. Loving Uncle Albert and his sound financial position had always wanted Mary to look as fair on the outside as he believed her to be on the inside. A shallow "U" comprised of violet satin had served as Mary's collar. The dress itself was layered, the bottommost being made of chintz that matched the neckline. There was an overlay of delicate lavender chiffon that covered every inch of the darker portions, save for a large, upside down "V" on either side. The plaited chiffon was joined against the chintz with a thick, satin belt and the dress's three-quarter sleeves were decorated with gentle satin ruffles, the accompaniments being of the darker color. The dress had been exquisite indeed, but very much practical as well - three-quarter sleeves had been absolutely necessary. Mary would never forget the heat that swept over London that summer afternoon, as it was the primary reason she had ever run into Bert, or at the very least, left him with the first impression that she had.

The young lady had just returned to her home in the city after running errands for her care giver, escaping the extreme summer weather as she slipped through the front door and into the shade of the house.

"It's positively stifling out there!" She had informed Uncle Albert, removing her straw hat in a flourish and hanging it up appropriately. Soon after, Mary had heard scuffling above her, and knowing her uncle was the house's only other resident, she immediately inquired the source of it.

"Just the chimney sweep, dear," he had replied, never glancing up from the book he was reading. The response had shocked his niece.

"A chimney sweep?" She echoed in disbelief. "Uncle Albert, it's sweltering! He'll roast in there today. What possessed you to call a sweep over this afternoon?"

But he had seemed perfectly justified. "Well, the nights are expected to get colder and the chimney in the sitting room upstairs needs work. I figured I would request him now before it gets nippier and he's too busy to attend to it. Of course, I couldn't get our usual sweep, but this chap came instead."

"I can't imagine why," Mary noted sarcastically to her uncle's nonchalant demeanor. "Have you at least offered him some water?" When Uncle Albert shook his head "no," as if realizing he should have, Mary rushed into the kitchen saying, "I best get him some before he passes out."

While it may have seemed odd for Mary to get worked up over such a thing, at that point in her life the young lady had indeed learned what a wretched feeling it was to go above and beyond for someone and receive no gratitude in return. She refused to deprive someone else of the thankfulness they deserved if she could help it. Without another moment's thought, Mary retrieved a tray and a pitcher, hurrying to fill it with the coolest water available. An etched drinking glass was added, as were the few rags she was able to get her hands on, thinking of how horribly the debris and sweat must have caked on the poor man on such a day. Satisfied, Mary floated through the sitting room once again and up the steps to deliver the tray.

"You'll have to forgive my uncle for calling you out on such a day," Mary had announced as she entered the room, setting the items on the table, which had been covered in white. The whole room, from the wooden floors to the sofas, had been protected and the sweep had seemed to be well into the task. Luckily enough, he had been outside of the fireplace when she entered and her approach had been heard. "I simply can't fathom it - but I thought you could use this nonetheless," Mary explained, pouring some of the water into the glass for the man.

"That's very thoughtful of you. My gratitude, miss," the sweep exclaimed picking up a cloth and rubbing the darkness from his face. It had been obvious that he was not expecting her to come in the room, let alone address him. He had appeared to be delighted by the unexpected measure, and Mary couldn't help but feel good about acting on her impulse.

"You're quite welcome," she had insisted, her hands locked behind her back. "We certainly appreciate you coming out on a day like today, it being so ghastly. Are you sure you feel all right?"

"Positive," he had replied in his same chipper tone, perhaps glad that someone had bestowed upon him some consideration, something that was probably not very bountiful in his life. When Mary had managed to get a look at him with his face somewhat clean, she realized that he was fairly young and that the stamina that accompanied such youth must have been the only thing that had kept him from toppling over.

"I suppose I'll-" She had jumped into her words of parting, but was cut short. For one reason or another, perhaps the combination of sweat against the damp glass, the drinking glass had escaped the sweep's hand as he raised it to his lips for the first time, smashing thoroughly against the hard floor.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he had stammered, becoming upset for breaking the item in such a way in front of its purveyor. "Take that directly from my pay." A flurry of motion followed afterwards.

"Oh! Don't worry about that. It's perfectly fine. There's no cause for concern." Mary had insisted softly, trying to keep the man from picking up the pieces. She was beginning to feel horribly guilty that her good deed had gone astray. He hadn't ceased in his pursuit to rectify the situation until she had laid a hand against his shoulder, at which point he stepped back, obviously not wanting her dress to contract soot.

"You didn't get cut, did you?" Mary had asked, the thought of the debris getting into an incision causing her to bring a hand to her chin, terrified.

"No, no," he hurried to assure.

That was all Mary needed to hear to be contented. "Well then, there's no harm done at all. It will be much easier to mend that glass than it would be to mend you."

"I'm afraid not," the sweep had disagreed, "I appear to have done quite a number on it. I assure you that-"

The young lady had raised a hand in front of her for silence, a part of her almost growing bored. "Oh, none of that. I'll take care of this, just shield your eyes, please."

He obediently had brought a hand to his head, most likely thinking it had something to do with the glass. That, however, had only been part of Mary's reasoning. If she left the glass in shambles, the sweep would never forgive himself and she in turn would be terribly upset for ever bringing the situation into existence. A glass so badly broken, however, could not be repaired by ordinary means. She would have to use magic, and perhaps if the sweep kept his eyes closed, he would not see it.

Mary had tilted the hand still in front of her towards her body, as one might bring a glass to their lips. She then moved the hand in a backwards C motion, appearing to grasp at the air. At this movement, the pieces had slowly picked themselves back off the floor, returning to their correct positions to make up the cup. The water, too, returned drop by drop, until all signs of the event were removed from the covered hardwood. As Mary extended her palm out flatly again, the glass had glided to her hand and she examined it thoroughly. It looked brand new, with neither holes in its structure nor fragments in its water. Satisfied, the young lady set it back on the table.

"Good as new," she informed an awe-struck chimney sweep, who had apparently seen the whole thing.

"Very clever magic trick you've got there." He had somehow managed, intrigued.

Mary had grinned awkwardly. "More like a bad habit, but thank you all the same. I agree it does come in handy sometimes."

The sweep chuckled, obviously having no idea what else to do in such a situation. The young lady, truly, hadn't had a much stronger inkling herself.

"Well, I suppose I should leave you be and stop causing such trouble. Thank you very much again."

"Thank you, miss," he had replied.

"Quite welcome," Mary almost sang, the words reverberating into the sitting room as she exited.

About a half an hour later, a semi-clean chimney sweep had ambled down the staircase with brushes in tow. The sleeves of his blouse were rolled up his elbows and he had exhaled in satisfaction.

"Yer all set, sir," he had informed Uncle Albert.

"Very good, very good. I shall be right with you." Uncle Albert had hurried off to retrieve money for the sweep, leaving Mary in the room.

"That was remarkable, you know," the sweep had told her, "that bit with the glass and all. I've seen some good tricks in my day, but-"

"I beg your pardon?" Mary had asked, concerned. "I don't recall any such ev - oh, the heat has been tampering with your head, hasn't it? Perhaps you should retire to some place cool for the evening, hmm?"

He had looked at her curiously and was about to question her when Uncle Albert returned with the payment.

"Thank you, sir," the sweep had heralded, pocketing the coins.

"No, thank you," Uncle Albert insisted. "It was very good of you to come on a day like this. Have a good evening, now."

"I will, thank you. Good evening to you, ma'am," the sweep had addressed to Mary, still a bit confused.

"Good evening," she returned with an elaborated wink of one of her sapphire eyes and a knowing smile.

He could only smile in return as he exited the house.

They were far from being the friends they would eventually grow into, but an unapparent foundation had been laid, nonetheless, for future encounters. Because, yes, hey would meet again, of course, and the next time fate caused them to collide the two would become better acquainted with each other. However, that wouldn't be for the better part of a year, and so very much would happen to Mary in the interim.


	3. Learning to Fly

Dear Readers,

First off, I should like to express my sincerest thank-yous to Sbradley, Gabrielle, redneckqueen-93, and Temple for their support! I appreciate it so very much! Redneckqueen-93 posed a question regarding how Mary's mother died and how much time Mary has. The latter should be answered below, and I promise that by the time the story is finished, what caused Mrs. Poppins' demise will be fully addressed.

I am sorry this chapter took a little longer to get up. I do like to keep one chapter ahead of things, and while Chapter 3 is the largest yet, I should warn you that Chapter 4, when completed, will be rather big itself, so brace yourself! Both this and the next chapter will still be set in past time. But without further ado, Chapter 3! Thank you all so very, very much! Please enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

Two months later, the nippiness that had badgered Uncle Albert's mind that summer had most assuredly arrived. His decision to act back then had remedied the problem of a drafty house before it ever manifested. Though even if he had allowed his fireplaces to deteriorate into a most despicable state, the man doubted that such matters would ever have even crossed his mind at the present moment in time. It looked as though, regardless of any warmth Uncle Albert would ever try to procure, his old house would soon become dank forever.

Mary Poppins had wished the day to pass as any other, though knew that such a thing was impossible. The young woman turned eighteen years old that particular October day. She had never been very fond of celebrating birthdays: they occurred around the same time as did the anniversaries of some particularly distressing memories, and while the concept of maturing may have been of keen interest to other young people, to Mary it was only sand through the hourglass. Uncle Albert had most always been kind and sensitive enough of his niece to avoid the occasions, but after they had finished elevenses that morning, it became obvious that this birthday would not go unnoted, as Mary had been sensible enough to realize. She was also logical enough to understand that there was good reason for it. It would quite possibly be the last time she ever observed a birthday in his home.

"I-I know how you aren't fond of these things, Mary," Uncle Albert persisted as he made his way over to his niece's seat at the table, a long, white box in his hand. "But, this time I simply couldn't refrain from, well - I suppose this really isn't a gift. It's a necessity, really, if you insist on keeping to your plan." He set the package on the table in front of her.

"I do, Uncle Albert," Mary informed him, "and I thank you so very much for your thoughtfulness. I've always appreciated it." She kissed his cheek while he was still bent toward her. Not until he settled himself in his chair again did the young lady tug at the box's purple bow before removing the lid and parting the delicate paper underneath it. There sat before her a rather exquisite umbrella, uniform in every way until a moment's gaze upon its handle revealed the form of a rather exotic bird. She lifted it out of the package and briefly inspected it. As Mary returned it to its resting position, the parrot's glistening eyes blinked at her. Having spent the past eight years of her life in her uncle's home, the young woman did not even need this gesture to understand that the umbrella was special. It seemed that nothing of Uncle Albert's was truly as it appeared, and Mary, possessing the same quality, had grown to appreciate and expect it. She did not feel the need to ask him how it worked, knowing that she herself would figure out the object's uniqueness in due time.

"I'll miss you so very much, surely you know that."

Mary looked away from the umbrella. "Of course I do, and I feel the exact same way. But I don't intend on ever being extremely far away. There's simply no need for it."

Uncle Albert tried to bite back his response, but facing the last opportunity he might ever have of posing his argument, he could not contain himself. "There's no need for you to do this at all, Mary dear. You know how many people I encounter from day to day in my line of work. I hear of so many sons and grandsons out there, looking for brides - looking to love."

Mary Poppins sighed. Since the first time she had mentioned an interest in becoming a nanny, her uncle seemed to have had his doubts about the idea. For many reasons, namely the burden placed long ago on his niece's shoulders, he had felt the girl was better suited to seek a husband and mother children of her own. But Mary had always adamantly disagreed, having compiled a solid list of reasons why her own plan was more favorable after the years she had spent pondering both ideas. She felt the need to recount a few of these to her uncle.

"Oh, Uncle Albert, we've been over this so very many times, once more won't hurt, I suppose. Should I seek marriage only to break this curse, I do imagine that any love that ever sprang from it would be considered untrue. And you know as well as I do that someone has to love me for who I am - not what I am. I do imagine that, just as your love can't break me from my bondage because you are my uncle, a husband's love could not help me either."

The freeness in Mary's voice as she spoke of such things pained Uncle Albert, as was detectable in his weak reply of, "I suppose so." He knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"And besides," she continued, hoping to remove all doubt from both of their minds that this was indeed the path she should pursue, "before I even begin to care about anyone loving me, I have to love myself. I think back on all of those times when I was young - after mother and father had gone - when I felt so positively horrible. And-and I think back to you, Uncle Albert, and everything you've done for me. It felt - and still feels - _wonderful_ to have someone on my side. I want to give the same as you have given. I want to help the most troubled children to overcome their problems, to feel remembered. It is the inability to do this that concerns me more than any sort of death sentence I'm apparently tied to."

Uncle Albert knew that Mary Poppins was a very wise woman who had the ability to think for herself and act appropriately upon her decisions. He knew that her goals were very noble indeed, and had the potential to see her far, to even overcome the horrible hex put upon her. He could only trust her judgement.

"You do understand how this works, don't you Mary?" He eventually questioned, his chances to aid his niece become fewer and fewer.

She shifted uneasily. "I should like to think so, but you know all of what father ever told me - that little bit before he left here. Surely, you must know more. Perhaps you could - clear away some of the...vagueness." For truly the topic had never been widely discussed between the two of them.

"I'll certainly try," Uncle Albert assured, smiling vaguely. He knew more than he ever cared to about the subject and it was considerably difficult for him to explain. "Well, I know you are well aware of _why_ this all came about and that this was, indeed, your father's doing. Yes, well, you know that all that is needed is an 'I love you,' albeit genuine, to be freed of his enchantment. But I realize as well as you do that that is not so simple.

"It has to be the genuine Mary Poppins that is loved. Any sort of coquettish behavior, I imagine, would be considered incitement and would not be considered a true cause of affection. Any sort of attention you try to draw to yourself will have the same effect. It must be _you_ that is loved, flaws - so few as there are - and all. You do understand what I mean, don't you, Mary? Excessive bits of magic or charm are only going to hurt you. Your magic is a double-edged, sword, you must be careful with it."

She nodded solemnly in agreement before he continued. More so than ever before was Mary aware of the fact that her father left his daughter with her quizzical abilities those eight years prior as much - if not more - to hinder her as to help her.

"I would strongly advise against relating your entire history to anyone. Any sort of pity or remorse that ensues from the telling of your past will also affect you. Sympathy will not garner you anything. I-I know it sounds complicated, but you must simply be yourself - as you always have been."

Mary tried her hardest to absorb everything Uncle Albert had said, knowing that it would be a memory she would want to recall in the future. After doing her best to preserve his recitation, she dared to pose a question.

"But, how will I know if an 'I love you' is true or not? How will I know if - it's - been lifted or if my time will expire?"

Her uncle mustered a grin before motioning to the umbrella. "Him," he began simply. "It's one of his numerous functions. He will monitor all that happens, which is why I believe you'll find it beneficial to carry it with you as often as you can. I know that's not always possible, but I believe he has better senses than he's ever been awarded for. He'll know, and he'll relay this knowledge to you. He'll be the one to inform you of when you're free, you'll know straight away. And, as for the latter part of your question, I should hate to think that would ever happen, and so would rather abstain from answering it. I will say as much, though, as I did for the previous question: _you will know_. He _will_ tell you. You've been given the same amount of time as your mother - the-the age at which she died is your...margin. Ten days after your twenty-ninth birthday."

It was becoming very visible that Uncle Albert was losing nerve. Feeling dreadful for all of the commotion and difficulty she was causing, Mary rushed to his side to try to comfort him. "Oh, Uncle Albert! Really, this isn't your fault!"

He kept himself composed for his niece's sake, to reinforce the point that she had nothing to worry about. Though he couldn't help but notice that it was becoming a very hard concept to believe in. "Don't hate your father, Mary," he settled on. "He really was a good man, good to your mother, and to you until - oh, Mary! He was disgruntled, unnerved after what happened - he _did_ love you, he just didn't know how to handle things. It's all so silly, really," he insisted, patting Mary's forearm. "Those children will love you, I know it, and soon this will all be nonsense in the past."

Mary could only smile and embrace Uncle Albert in gratitude. Even if her own father had never believed her to be worth anything, abandoning her as a ten-year-old girl, her uncle apparently had a great amount of faith in her. It made it all the harder to leave, but she knew that she had to. Looking to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, she noted the time and blinked in surprise. It was nearing half after twelve, and if she did not hurry, she would surely miss the interview she had so desperately wanted to attend: a family on Speedwell Street was in pursuit of a new nanny for their three young children, or so stated the newspaper. It seemed to be a wonderful opportunity, and now that Mary had reached an age at which she felt comfortable in executing her long-pondered decision, she grew anxious to begin right away. Not even Uncle Albert's somberness could delay her.

"I really must get going, Uncle Albert, I shan't be late for this," she insisted. He well understood Mary's ambitions, and knew could no longer thwart her - there was no time to waste. Thus, when she returned to the dining room moments later, with outerwear in place and carpet bag and umbrella in tow, he let her go with a simple "I love you," words that he hoped his niece would be hearing again sometime soon.

* * *

She had trekked but halfway down the cobbled road when the cloudy sky grew all the more ominous. Droplets of rain threatened to grow into a downpour, teasing her to open up her new umbrella. Mary did, and shortly thereafter a gust of wind spun her about. As she tried to continue on her original course she was lifted gently up into the air.

"I do believe you're going in the wrong direction," Mary Poppins informed the parrot, rising still higher against the bleak sky. It did not take long for her to deduce that only the umbrella could be causing this phenomenon.

"Nonsense, Mary Poppins," he squawked in reply. "That is, unless, your _poignant_ recitation about wanting to help children was complete jabberwocky."

"Of course it wasn't!" An exasperated Mary defended.

"Very well then," the bird replied, unruffled by her gruffness. "Then you can't honestly expect to find 'the most troubled children' of London in a newspaper advertisement. Heavens, no, you're going to have to conduct a bit more refined search than that. You're going to have to find them for yourself, and I do imagine you can do your most efficient scanning from the clouds. There's no better view of London."

As frightened as she may have been of this proposition, Mary had decided that she did not want the umbrella to know this and so for the remainder of their ascension she kept rather silent. She eventually found herself sitting softly upon a cloud, and setting her bag and the umbrella down allowed herself the most spectacular view of the city she could ever imagine. Indeed, she found just what she was told she would - things she could never have dreamed of seeing from the ground. Mary Poppins was able to discern from the masses plenty of needy children, more plainly than seemed imaginable. From her curious vantage point she drank in even more remarkable things: hope and prospect, chance and possibility. She found reason to want to try and achieve what she had long dreamed of accomplishing. It was this force, despite her fears, that would aid her down from the sky and force her to attempt so many things that seemed to carry a high risk of ending in failure.


	4. But They Grew

Dear Readers,

I have much to say thank you for and much to apologize for this time around. First and foremost, absolutely all of my thanks goes out to Sbradley, Gabrielle, redneckqueen-93, and "me" for their generous reviews and messages (which I am having some technical difficulties with, but will try to resolve). I also very much appreciate the support and encouragement! You make me very anxious to work on this.

Which leads me into a few apologies I'd like to make in advance. The one on the top of this list is length. As I stated before, this chapter is quite long - the story portion being just short of 6,500 words. This whole little scenario was originally drafted as a couple of chapters, but it didn't end up like that. It has been broken up, so hopefully that will make it a little less annoying? Which leads me to my second reason to express sympathy: I do apologize if anything seems rushed. If I really went into too many details, this chapter probably would have hit between 10,000-15,000 words, and I don't think anyone would appreciate that. And lastly I'd like to apologize if things seem a little off the wall (no pun intended). For me it went with the territory and sometimes could not be avoided.

I believe it was Sbradley who wanted to see more of Bert, and that means someone certainly knew what to ask for. A lot of this is actually his doing, being spun (perhaps out of proportion) by more comments he made in the movie than I realized. As previously mentioned for anyone I may confuse the tar out of, we are still indeed in the "past" for this entire chapter, and we'll swing forward to the "present" next time.

But anyway, I'd like to thank everyone once again - and anyone who actually lives through this chapter! I'm hoping very much that you enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

Mary certainly did come down - and went back up, and continually repeated the action. It was both figurative and literal, however, for not much time had passed before Mary Poppins realized the degree of fondness she possessed for her occupation. Even the most beguiling of children, or so it seemed, held a special place with her. The ability to ease them through their tears or pain with her own instinctive finesse was clearly one of the greatest gifts she had ever received. And thus it was most always with great difficulty that she mustered the most steadfast goodbyes she was capable of, much like her children more or less did before they watched her go. After her first few months of nannying, the task of departing grew more manageable. Little did Mary know how her mettle would be tested. 

On that day when her trying venture was initiated, the nanny was perched amidst the haze, drinking in the sights below. It seemed a quiet morning, in fact even the usual hustle and bustle of the center city was reduced to a state of sluggishness. A few strolled leisurely back and forth across the streets - shopping, no doubt. A couple of blocks over the barber brushed at his sidewalk, the bristles flicking back and forth almost musically. Habit urged Mary Poppins to glance down Kirkby Lane and she eventually conceded, though all appeared calm at Uncle Albert's house. Scanning the nearby park revealed many contented boys and girls, all tottering about with their doting caretakers in tow. But surely not all of the city's children were of such fine spirits. There was always a doleful soul or two lurking, waiting, enough of them for Mary to never dream of leaving London so long as what she sought remained so fixedly in front of her eyes. But then on cue something stole her attention away, craning her neck around. Her focus fell on a small brick storefront, inlaid with long glass windows. Looking beyond the arced gold letters spelling out "Mrs. Corry's," Mary could see a flurry of motion on the other side of the panes. Two very little girls scuttled about, their petite mother at their heels. There was shouting, too, but even Mary could not hear it from such a distance away. Soon, the party burst outside, what had to be Mrs. Corry herself flailing madly about before rushing back into her shop via the door that had not yet swung shut. The tiny brunettes were gone, having scurried around the corner. Mary Poppins afforded herself a grin of satisfaction. They would be next. The opportunity would appear for her to depart to them, and she would grasp it tightly.

* * *

Shortly after her decision had been made, a satisfied nanny was caring for Kitty and Amelia Corry, twin tykes of the well-regarded Mister and Misses Corry, who were the proprietors of the quaintest little bakery in London. Though she had been producing it since many years before, the baker's gingerbread specialties had almost overnight established a prodigious assembly of admirers, whose clamors for more of the treat seemed to never cease. Finding themselves almost permanently stuck behind the counter or in front of the ovens, the ever loving parents could not help but admit that someone was needed to tend to their two rambunctious children, whom could never be too close to them without being in their way. It was because of this that the appearance of Mary Poppins, a young yet extremely professional woman who would be interested in caring for the children, was considered to be salvational. Promptly after her arrival, Mrs. Corry ushered her up a narrow staircase in her storeroom, which led to a drawing room where the two young girls Mary had seen from aloft halfheartedly engaged themselves in a game of jacks. Having little time for introductions, their mother spoke only a few brief words before returning to her customers. Upon Mrs. Corry's departure, the one called Amelia allowed the red ball in her palm to roll across the wooden floor until a wall impeded its motion. The prospect of having company seemed to delight the sisters, who wasted no time at all helping Mary settle into the little third-floor annex she would be staying in before conducting a tour of the rest of the family's cozy residence above the store. It was truly a very lovely place - neither too ornate nor too stark by Mary Poppins' standards - and although the wooden walls and floors may have seemed dolorous otherwise, sunshine washed over them generously to make the rooms quite comfortable. The nanny was equally as delighted by the children after their first impression had been made. They were balls of energy, yes, but in addition to their buoyancy they also maintained impeccable manners that made them darling to be around. Unlike other children, Kitty and Amelia did not voice the slightest objection to anything Mary Poppins had to say - at least not until they were all in the drawing room once again, where the children stood before their nanny who was sitting on the plush couch, her carpet bag at her feet. 

"Now then," she began, fingering the ruffled jabot of her blouse. "Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I would like to get a measure of the situation, if you would be so kind." Mary promptly opened her titian carpet bag and produced a tape measure. The twins groaned.

"Must you really measure us, Mary Poppins?" Kitty ventured, her shining brown eyes gazing reproachfully at Mary.

She was slightly taken aback. "Not unless you know of some other way for the tape measure to give me its reading."

"You don't need to read it" - this time Amelia spoke up - "because we can tell you exactly what it says. Three feet and four inches, that's what it always says and it won't be any different this time." Having revealed their resentment, the girls' faces became very somber indeed. Mary Poppins smiled weakly. She should have known that the girls' heights would be a sore spot with them, but must have overlooked it due to the fact that their personalities made them seem much bigger than they were. Nevertheless, she wasn't about to let them go easily.

"And you're positive, are you?" The duo nodded synchronously. "Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we? Come here, please, Kitty, you first."

It obviously being against her upbringing to disobey a superior's order, Kitty took another step toward her nanny and allowed herself to be measured without any more fuss. Mary did just that, and reading the tape measure, beamed.

"Hmph, now that's not exactly what you were expecting, is it?" She turned the yellow tape around to allow the girl a look at it. Her eyes grew wide to see that not a number marked its increment anywhere. Instead, underneath Mary's forefinger were the words "Enormous fun, often plunders the cookie jar." Amelia crept up to read it for herself and gave a laugh while her sister remained stunned. "Your turn, Amelia." Kitty's twin was much more anxious to comply. Mary Poppins repeated the procedure, and soon the other sister was reading her measurement. "Talkative, but a very good secret keeper." She too was amazed.

"I've never seen anything like _that_ before!" Amelia managed.

"They're very truthful things, really," Mary resolved. "Numbers don't lie and neither do tape-measures. They can tell you all sorts of tidbits but rarely do. This one just happens to sympathize with me, I suppose. Not often are the children I meet as pleasant as you two."

The sisters both laughed at this, and took a minute to confer in whispers to each other.

"So the measuring-tape never lies, Mary Poppins?"

"Never."

Amelia hesitated and so it was Kitty who eventually asked, "Might we get your measure, to understand the situation, too?"

She smiled widely at them as she stood up, unable to deny such reasoning. "If you wish." Amelia took the end of the tape measure as Mary pulled at it, grabbing her height with her thumb and forefinger and handing it to the girls to read.

"Mary Poppins," they recited together. "Practically perfect in every way."

Amidst her charges' smiles and giggles, a slightly crimson Mary collected the measuring-tape and placed it back in her bag saying, "a very curious thing, indeed." When all had composed themselves, she wasted no time in returning to business. "We seem to have an afternoon to do as we please. Is there any particular game you would like to play?"

Amelia did not need very long to make up her mind. "Oh, Mary Poppins! It's been so long since mummy or daddy has had a free afternoon to take us to the park!"

Delighted at her sister's brilliance, Kitty took a quick glance out the window before agreeing. "It's such a lovely day! Would you take us, please? We'd appreciate it so very much."

"A wonderful day to get some fresh air, indeed. I think just such an outing could be arranged." Though it was an emotion Mary felt for all of her children, she seemed to carry a particular desire to make Kitty and Amelia Corry happy. She supposed that was the effect they had on people.

* * *

The ado of children was perhaps the most common sound to be heard in the park, and so Herbert Alfred, always trying to be a consummate artist, had not been distracted by it until he heard from somewhere out in front of him, "Oh, look, Kitty! It's Bert! Do let's say 'hello' to him!" He did not look up from his work, however, until two distinct voices rang, "Hello, Bert!" 

Right before him was an identical pair of young girls he most assuredly was familiar with accompanied by a woman who he could not recall being associated with them. "Well, if it isn't the Corry girls! It's been a time since I've seen you two! How's your mum and dad gettin' along?"

"Oh, just fine, thank you! They're as busy as ever, of course. And how are you?" But before the man could answer her, true-to-the-measuring-tape Amelia burst into words again. "This is our new nanny, Bert!"

Kitty then informed Mary, "Bert makes silhouette portraits!" The girl motioned to the little set-up the fellow stood at, a rather collapsible looking surface covered in scissors, black paper, and matting with a few examples tacked around its edges. A small stool stood on its opposite side. "Mother had ours made awhile back. She has them hanging in the store."

"Does she now?" Mary Poppins inquired, grinning genuinely. "How nice."

At this moment, another brilliant idea dawned on Amelia. "Why don't you have your portrait done? It's great fun to watch!" The nanny was soon flooded by the girls' insistence.

"Now girls," she reasoned, her voice rising a bit. "It would hardly be polite to impose on this gentleman's busy schedule."

"On the contrary, miss," he assured as the young lady turned to face him, "I just so happen to 'ave an opening."

Mary sighed as the girls burst into a quieter round of persistence. She truly did not want their fun to end, or her own for that matter. And so as not to damper any spirits, with a simper she agreed, "Very well."

Bert smiled and ushered his customer to the seat. "Now then, which side should you like your silhyauette of?"

Mary Poppins paused a moment to think before deciding. "Hmm, what about a frontal view - would that be too much of a complication?" She asked, touching at the back of her straw hat with her gloved fingertips.

"Not at all," he insisted, and retreated to the other side of his work area. A girl stood on either side of their seated nanny. "Jus' try to stay as still as yeh can an' we'll be in good shape."

"Now do mind your manners, don't distract," Mary reminded Kitty and Amelia softly as the artist picked up a piece of the murky paper and a pair of scissors. As he began to cut slowly, she did her best to remain as stationary as possible, her gaze fixed somewhere forward. Bert never looked down at the paper but instead examined the face he was so aptly trimming out of the sheet.

"Begging your pardon, miss," he said, breaking the silence as he finished a side of the woman's long neck. "I don't mean to sound presumpt'ous at all, but I can't help thinking our paths 'ave crossed before."

The lady focused in on him as he continued to do the same, working up her chin. Mary Poppins possessed a very good memory, to be sure, but she could not affiliate the man with any child she had previously tended to. She dug farther back into her mind like she would her carpet bag, looking for a time that plausibly would have allowed them to have met. Not soon after, it became apparent.

"Yes. I do believe that they have. Except, lest my memory is failing me, it seems that last time it was not my face but yours that was darkened."

He smiled all the wider. "Yer quite right. An interesting afternoon a few months ago. Yes, it's all clear now."

Mary made a funny little humming noise in her throat. "Face blackened or not, though, I fear I still don't have a name to place to it."

He continued up her cheek bone. "The name's Bert," he informed her congenially. "And you would be?"

"Mary Poppins!" The girls declared. The figure named chimed right back in, not particularly wanting her tape-measure-bestowed title to be revealed as well.

"Thank you, girls, though I'm sure I could have managed," she replied with a smile. "But they're correct, Mary Poppins it is," she said, returning her gaze to Bert.

"So nice to be introduced, Miss Mary," - his scissors carefully traced the side of her forehead - "I trust your father is doing well? Wonderful chap."

For a moment she was quite confused. "Father? Oh! Oh, my uncle, actually. Sometimes I think he's everyone's uncle, though. At least, in his heyday he was. But yes, my uncle is 'Uncle Albert,' humor columnist and self-proclaimed optimist for the London Times."

"Really now? Very interesting. I've read his article for some time! A wonderful job he does. Wrote into 'im years ago, actually. Always considered doing it again."

The young woman smiled, she loved to hear her uncle receive praise. As peculiar as he may have seemed, he certainly deserved every bit of it. "Thank you. And you certainly should write to him. He does love getting post. Adores house guests, too - always something to write about. And now that I've left the house so empty . . . " Her eyes rolled down to Amelia on her left, before passing over her beige skirt to Kitty on the right, trying hard to keep her head from tipping, too. They were transfixed by Bert's craftsmanship as he finished the ornate decorations on Mary's hat without ever watching what he was doing. Mary looked back at him. "I'm sure he'd rather enjoy you stopping in for a chat."

"Thank you very much, miss," Bert declared, the other side of the woman's face being a much swifter job than the first. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Before anyone knew it, Mary Poppins' silhouette was complete, and after placing it in a mat, Bert offered it for viewing to the three of them. The girls looked from the picture to their nanny, eyes filled with wonder.

"It's just right, Mary Poppins! Right down to the last flower!" Proclaimed Kitty.

Mary couldn't disagree. She took her wide, sapphire eyes from the portrait to the artist. "Oh, it's positively brilliant!"

He scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand, grinning, as the woman fetched her belongings from beside the stool. "Thank ye', but it's nothin' special. Just a hobby o' mine, I s'pose. One of many."

"It still takes talent," she insisted, placing her umbrella beneath her arm to better handle her leather bag. The young lady began to withdraw coins from the purse, but Bert adamantly refused. He handed Mary her silhouette.

"I appreciate it very much, really I do, but a cool drink of water on a stifling 'ot day more than covered it."

Mary Poppins considered him for a moment, perhaps pondered of trying to force some of the coins on him regardless, but she did not dare insult his generous integrity. "So very kind, though I ask you to please never mention it again," she requested, fitting the artwork into her bag and closing it. "It was the least I could do. Now children, I suppose we should let Mister Bert back to his work. Thank you again, so very nice to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine," he insisted as he touched at the brim of his cap. "Enjoy your day Kitty, Amelia - 'ope to see you again soon!"

The ladies parted ways with the portrayer and began strolling about the park's footpaths, the girls declaring how lovely it was merely to be out of the confines of their little house. There were plenty of sights to see, too: ducks and pigeons bobbing about, the flowers coming to bloom, and the other passers by who too sought to behold a lovely spring day.

"Amelia, look!" Kitty hissed, tapping at her sister's shoulder as an asphalt area came into view. Upon it a score of children was playing hopscotch.

Mary Poppins heard the little girl's whisper and joined in the conversation. "Friends of yours? Should you like to play with them?"

"No!" They both responded in unison, trying to avoid the area as they grew closer to it. A long and suspicious look on Mary's part forced them to elaborate. "Most of them are older than we are, nine or ten years old. But they're all _taller_ than us. They-they don't ever let us play with them." The twins did their best to avoid a few taunting jeers they received as they passed the other children's play area and rounded the bend out of sight. The crestfallenness of the little girls quite obvious, Mary Poppins decided not to push the matter.

However in due time they had gone full-circle within the park, and presently approached the vicinity of the empty space where they had first entered. The amount of traffic had not increased at all. Mary Poppins came to a standstill but the children continued on toward the wrought iron gate.

"Surely you don't want to leave yet! Did we not come here to play a game?"

The girls scurried back before Kitty declared, "We don't much feel like playing hopscotch, Mary Poppins."

"Whoever said anything about hop scotch?" The nanny inquired as if the thought had never entered her mind. "No, I was thinking more along the lines of . . . " Once again, Mary retreated into her purse, this time retrieving a long white rope with wooden handles.

"Jump rope!" They exclaimed together.

"But we need three people!" Reasoned Kitty.

Mary Poppins sighed. "Are we not three people?"

Amelia squealed. "You mean you'll play with us? Oh how nice! We've never been very good. I'm sure you can show us how to jump better."

She was taken aback. Yes, the young woman had planned on spinning it for them, but never dreamed of jumping the rope for herself. She very much wanted to protest but found she did not have the heart to. Recalling how crushed the girls had seemed when speaking of their exclusion from the group of children, Mary did not want to hurt their feelings also by not participating with them. And, well, not too many people seemed to be paying them any attention - for truly there weren't many people around at all. For Kitty's and Amelia's sakes she'd just have to leap into the breach. Literally.

"Assuming I can still remember how to do this. It's been some time, really. But yes, you two take the rope and spin it high now - good." Mary set her umbrella and purse against the stone wall just behind them, and picked up her skirts a bit to reveal her black stockings and paisley silk brocaded boots. After following the arc of the rope for a few revolutions, she gracefully hopped right underneath it and began lifting off the ground at just the right moment. Two or three jumps later she asked, "Are you not going to chant out some sort of rhyme?"

Amelia corrected her. "No, Mary Poppins! The person jumping does! Do you know any?"

"Why of course!" Thinking only momentarily, she began her rhyme and simultaneously increased the difficulty of her tricks.

"Even the most dreadful tastes - can be remedied - With a pitch of something extra - in your recipe -" Her words were punctuated beautifully with maneuvers over the jump rope - Mary Poppins almost performed a sort of cancan and even hovered above the rope for it to swing twice or more under her feet before landing.

"A spoonful of sugar - helps abate the spice--" Mary's jumps and twirls grew yet higher, her singsong voice of honey never faltering and her fascinating maneuvers remained as poetic as her words. "It turns something acrid - into something nice." There Mary Poppins elegantly hopped out of the rope's path and the girls stopped spinning it.

"That was incredible, Mary Poppins!" Kitty marveled, her eyes wide.

"Well thank you," the nanny replied with a nod of the head. "Now, who's next?"

Amelia excitedly volunteered and Kitty relented, beginning to spin the rope with Mary on the opposite side. It turned a bit slower than it had for Mary, though this was not of much help to the girl anyway, for just as the first syllable of her verse emitted from her lips, she stomped full on the rope. Kitty let loose a giggle, though her nanny quickly chided her.

"See?" The forlorn sister inquired, her brown curls rising as she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I told you I'm not very good. Do you think perhaps you could jump in with me?"

Mary considered her sad little face for a moment. "I certainly could, but that would require another person to spin, would it not?"

Amelia nodded embarrassedly, but Kitty exclaimed. "Bert could do it!"

"Now, Kitty, don't be silly," Mary cooed. "He's--"

"-right there!" Amelia noted with lifting spirits, looking in a spot behind Mary Poppins. Mary wheeled around on her heel, leaving it slip to correct the girl for interrupting. Sure enough, standing at a point halfway between his stand and the jump ropers was the portrait maker, idly surveying the scene before him. Both girls rushed over to him.

"Bert," Amelia began, aroused, "would you spin for us?" But Mary caught up with them, elegantly folding the rope into her hand.

"Now girls," she insisted, looking up from their heads to flash the man an apologetic look, "it's impolite to try to involve someone in things they aren't interested in."

But Bert glanced from Kitty to Amelia before assuring, "Really, miss, I wouldn't mind a'tol - could take a bit of a break, anyway. That is, of course, unless you object."

Mary exhaled in a pleasant, almost amused fashion. "Be our guest."

Shortly thereafter, the jump ropers reassembled, Kitty and Bert now twirling, leaving Mary Poppins and Amelia hand-in-hand, waiting to cease just the right moment to jump in.

"I'm not so sure I can do this, Mary Poppins," Amelia confided as she hesitantly eyed the rope.

"Then that is your very first mistake," she insisted. "You very well know in your heart that nothing in this world is keeping you from jumping over that rope, do you not?" The girl nodded slowly. "Then tell your mind likewise. Once you've gotten the thought in your head, you'll believe yourself."

Amelia swallowed and thought about this for a moment before Mary Poppins led her into the rope's path. Before the girl knew it was happening, they were hopping over it. Mary stayed for a few jumps before skirting out of the game, the girl now reciting a little rhyme about lemon drops. When she had successfully finished it, she too tarried out of the way and took the wooden handle from her sister. Kitty then joined Mary and silently requested the same favor her sister had. The nanny complied and in a pinch she was in and out of the jump rope's way again, leaving Kitty in much the same fashion.

Instead of Kitty relieving her sister of her position when she was through, however, she trotted over to Bert and tugged at his sleeve, indicating that it was his turn. He shot Mary Poppins a questioning look, expecting her to speak. But Mary would not attempt to relieve him again. Should he truly want to jump rope, he was more than welcomed. And this was exactly how he interpreted the mysterious glimmer in her eyes. A few moments later, with the twins spinning and Mary Poppins observing with arms crossed, Bert tried to rocket underneath the jump rope. It caught against his ankle, causing him to most ungracefully save himself from falling nose-first to the hard ground.

"I'm a bit rusty, eh?" He asked the beaming girls, who were not daring to laugh at him in the presence of their nanny. Bert tried it again, but achieved similar results.

"I think Bert needs some help, too, Mary Poppins!" Amelia deduced. Her sister was quick to agree.

"Do you really?" Mary inquired of him.

He frowned momentarily. "It does appear so. Would ya mind?"

Discovering him to be speaking seriously - and a bit surprised at the find - Mary Poppins pleasantly offered him a gloved hand reasoning, "If we must, we must." Bert graciously accepted it and they inched closer to the rope as it slapped against the ground. "You do have a rhyme in mind, I suppose?" Mary asked much more earnestly than he had expected.

He smiled. "I think I do."

"Very good," she concluded. "Now then . . ." She closed her eyes, and Bert did likewise once he realized she had . "Concentrate, concentrate, _and _jump!" He had done it. Together they were bounding over the rope before Mary exited once again, leaving Bert to his own devices.

"Miss Mary is - your graceful - nanny," he sang whilst performing his own exuberant and haphazard jumping style. "Nice as pie - an' sweet as - candy, knows just how - to make your day - an' has some lovely - games to play." He narrowly dodged the rope and made his way over to Mary Poppins.

"Stunning rendition, Mister Bert," she said, tilting her head. A trace of a smile now accompanied the largely unreadable expression.

"Well, thank you. One of the better 'uns I've extemporised, if I may say so." The giggles of Kitty and Amelia seemed to give ample testament to his remark.

That night, as Mary Poppins tucked the twins into bed, they confided to her that their afternoon in the park was one of the best they ever had. They told this to their parents too, when they came to say goodnight after they had closed up for the evening and before they readied the shop downstairs for the busy morning that would come. Mary would never have heard any of this, of course, had she not been sitting on the stairway to her own room, gazing idly at the sliver of light shining from underneath the closed door at the foot of the stairs. She simply couldn't sleep, and so restlessness had sat her down on a wooden step as her ears listened for snores and silence in the girls' room on the other side of the wall. But it was talking that Mary Poppins heard.

"I really wish we could play with them, Kitty, just once."

"But why?" Her sister demanded. "We had Mary Poppins, and Bert, and plenty of fun without them."

That was enough to satisfy Mary, who silently made her way back to bed.

* * *

Though not every day spent with Mary Poppins was a walk in the park, the children grew rather fond of her company and the activities that transpired while they remained in it. Mister and Misses Corry were pleased with their acquisition, too, having one less thing to worry of as they went about their day. This was not to say, though, that the couple was not coming to a new understanding of their daughters. They were growing rather reliable, however, now performing little things around the bakery to help their parents out and spend a few extra minutes with them. Both children and parents, too, came to better understand the necessity of sharing their time with each other with other things. A torrent such as one that Mary had witnessed from the sky had not sprung about since her arrival, and she personally found this to be a very large improvement. Mary herself was largely responsible for this, soon learning of the destructive nature of the twins' over exuberance and helping them to harness it into better use. But that day would prove to be a very good test to see how well the contentedness would hold up once Mary Poppins left, for it was now the tenth of April, more importantly the second Tuesday of the month, and it was the only date she had explicitly requested off. While this may have been a terrible inconvenience for the Corrys otherwise, Mary had arranged that the twins would spend most of the day with them - helping them - and all had agreed that it sounded like a very good idea.

"So you're really leaving for the day, Mary Poppins?" Amelia asked as her nanny buttoned her long black coat, lined with powder blue, over her outfit.

"Absolutely," she insisted, picking up her umbrella and her purse. She stopped to examine them. "You're going to have a lovely day with your parents, and I'll be back for bedtime, so no worrying. Good day," she seemed to sing, heading down the hallway to the back door that accessed the home to the street. When she swung open the door, however, she came face to face with a half dozen children or so, staring at her.

"Yes?" She asked.

A girl near the front gulped before weakly asking. "Are Kitty and Amelia at home?"

"One moment," Mary insisted pleasantly before fetching the girls for them. "Now if you will excuse me." They cleared a path on the brick steps for the woman to descend and soon she was gliding on her way.

Mary Poppins tried to whistle as she continued on, but was entirely too downtrodden to do so. Most of all she fretted about retiring from the Corrys for the day. It was rightly her day off, which she felt she had enough cause to ask for, but she worried about the stability of the family business's structure, if the weight of their daughters would cause it to collapse. Mary resigned herself to the thought that it would have to be experimented someday, and the sooner she found out the better off the girls would be. She continued on, the topic still heavy on her mind nonetheless, when a band of children rounded the corner and came zipping past her rudely, splashing an incredulous face on her as they kicked up their heels.

One boy in the back proclaimed loudly to someone in the front, "They want to spend the day with their mum? Really! They can be the best jumpers there are, Ellen, but we still don't need 'em!"

By the time Mary made the connection, the children were well out of sight. She smiled, and felt no remorse at all about leaving them.

Her having returned to say goodnight as promised, Kitty and Amelia took the time to speak to Mary Poppins about the wonderful things the day had brought: how their mother had taught them to ice cupcakes, how their parents had arranged an outing the whole family would take to see the sights around the city as a well-deserved Saturday afternoon off. Absent from conversation was the girls' version of the story involving numerous children on their doorstep that morning. All of these things - said and unsaid - told Mary quite a bit. Most predominantly it informed her that it was almost time for her to go. Saturday was appearing to be a lovely day for traveling.

* * *

When that fateful morning dawned, there was no doubt in the nanny's mind that it was her time to go. It was not only the children's information that helped her make the decision. Mister and Misses Corry gave plenty of evidence that things were getting back on track within their household. All of them were sad to see her leave, of course, but from the beginning no one had been under the impression that Mary Poppins' presence would be a permanent arrangement. The girls had just about figured out what mattered in people. Their parents had added to their beloved bakery two very sweet yet indispensable commodities. The rest they would do for themselves. 

Kitty and Amelia took the news like troopers, their zealous personalities coming through for them. All of them stood in Mrs. Corry's store, though the shop was most assuredly closed. The family of four was dressed to go out, as was Mary Poppins. It might even be assumed that she would be going with them all, was her packed carpet bag not gripped firmly in her hand, with her purse and umbrella. No, this was where they would go their separate ways.

"We'll miss you, Mary Poppins," Amelia insisted, looking somber than her nanny had ever seen her. Her sister appeared to be gazing around the walls.

"Oh, now, don't you two fret all day. You've got a lovely afternoon planned and I want you to enjoy it, is that clear?" They nodded in agreement. Mister and Misses Corry smiled, collecting them by their shoulders.

Kitty spoke up, breaking her gaze for a moment. "We've had so much fun, what with all of the things we've been able to do."

Suddenly she blurted out a question after flashing to a particular spot on the wall momentarily. "Mary Poppins, will you be passing the park on your way home?"

She considered the question for a moment before responding, "I should think so."

Amelia gave a quick signal to her mother, who nodded before she bounded behind the glass counters of the store. She stopped before one such set of shelves, above which two identical silhouettes hung, facing each other - the very spot she had been examining. The girl hurriedly filled a small paper bag before returning to Mary. "I don't think we'll get there today, but - do you think you could give this to Bert for us - he did help us out with things - and tell him we say 'thank you'?"

Mary grinned, "I certainly can." Without another word, she took the opportunity to leave.

* * *

When Mary Poppins returned to the park, and then to him, without children in tow, he was the slightest bit concerned. "No littl'uns with you today?" Bert inquired after they had exchanged greetings, setting down the papers he had been trying to arrange. 

"No, no," Mary assured. "They're with their parents now." Mary rummaged through her purse and the silhouette maker looked curiously at her. "They wanted me to give you this, though, on my way." She produced the little bag of gingerbread and handed it to Bert, who chuckled.

"Dear little girls they are. Match better 'an a pair o' socks - and so small . . . " He mused.

But she didn't completely agree. "Actually, I think you'll find them quite big," Mary Poppins said, a far-off look in her eye. She eventually added to her statement. "Perhaps one day their bodies will grow into their souls."

Bert found the air around the woman to be filled with an odd sort of static. He could easily understand where some might find her intimidating, for part of him certainly did. But she was quite pleasant, too, and her peculiarity could almost be interpreted as inhuman if Mary Poppins was not as much of a lady as they come. He had no time left to ponder more, however, for she snapped out of her reverie and once again retreated into her handbag. For the first time he noticed the larger bag, which she had placed on the ground. Something seemed odd about this visit, more so than her last. But her silhouette was suddenly in her hands, interrupting his thoughts.

"I do like this," Mary insisted, marveling at it some more.

"One of the finest I could ever do," he agreed. She looked at him.

"Then do keep it," she offered, motioning at the others he had tacked up. "With the others. Your artwork deserves better than to be packed away in a bag."

Bert took it, paying more attention to her final comment and adding the clues together than to arguing with her. "So you're leaving? I don't think the Corrys could get along without you."

Mary smiled at him. "Oh, they'll manage. They've adjusted much better now. There's no need for me to stay around any longer."

"Where are you going?" He dared to ask.

"I'll know when I get there." She looked at the sky before picking up her carpet bag again and taking a better hold on her umbrella. "And it's about time I found out."

He was still not entirely sure of the situation, but felt no need to press the matter any further. "Goodbye, Mary Poppins," Bert offered genially, accepting the situation as commonplace. "Nice to see you again."

"And you, too, Bert" Mary Poppins assured, opening her umbrella. When a breeze gently picked her up and lifted her into the sky, he felt it did not surprise him as much as it should have. And with her reasoning, when the Corry girls would grow to outstanding heights over the years, he was not one of the many who wondered why it happened.

* * *

As more time passed, Mary Poppins would certainly come to learn that not all little children were as pleasant to be around as Kitty and Amelia. In fact the one presently in her charge could have taken a leaf from their book. 


	5. Getting Even

EDIT 8/20/07 - I told you the wee hours of the morning were not very kind to me! Somehow the entire first paragraph of the story got eaten in transit! But here the complete and correct chapter is (I hope)! So sorry about the mix-up!

Dear Readers,

I most certainly haven't abandoned this story, though I do apologize for being a bit late with the chapter. Something ended up jogging my memory and prompted me to rethink the ending of this story, which caused me to spend a few days to chew on it before writing the forty-eight words or so that will indeed serve as its ending. I then wanted to make sure that nothing was affected by the change and whatnot. So I suppose I was working on the story, just sort of backwards. And of course when I finally get cracking on this chapter, my area receives a tornado alert and I am urged into the basement. Very thankfully, said tornado never arrived.

Anyway, it seems as though I am going to do a fair bit of gabbing, so before I get to into things I would like to sincerely thank Sbradley, redneckqueen-93, Temple, teddyjo26, Gabrielle, Steeleafan, and anyone I may have missed - to whom I apologize prolifically! The wee hours of the morning are not very kind to me. But I do appreciate your support so very much! You guys inspire me!

As previously stated, we are returning to the "present" now, shortly after the first chapter took place (which will be referenced). I don't think my little roadmaps are entirely necessary, I would just hate to confuse anyone too much with the shifts. It's always been my biggest fear, and I had pondered many different ways of writing this story before deciding on this format, which - as hard as it may be to believe - seemed to get the job done the best out of all of my ideas. I do hope that you don't dislike the mixing of past/present. Sometimes in order to go forward one must go backward, I suppose.

This chapter isn't very long compared to the last, but I feel the next one will be another combination of multiple chapters into one so a breather is in order for you all. And since he was specifically mentioned I will say that the parrot does briefly appear, though we have not heard the last from him yet. Perhaps it's best if he stays quiet. I do seem to have developed him into a sort of rogue, haven't I? He brought it upon himself, I suppose. Hopefully this chapter won't seem too nebulous, though I swear there is some sort of method to my madness!

But it is getting rather late, and at the expense of sounding anymore ridiculous than I'm sure I already do, I'll leave you to the story. I should like to thank everyone once again for their outstanding support! It means so very much to me and you really keep things going!

-Margo

* * *

Mary Poppins simply could not deny it. Gilbert Gettings was baleful, unruly, and insolent. More notably than that, all portents seemed to indicate that the cheeky redhead would be - one way or another - her final charge. Even with the nanny's years of experience, her choice was a peculiar one. Of course, if anyone could ever help the lad it would be Mary Poppins, but she was hardly the same woman she once was. Her father had not lied. As the final ascertained month had begun, she could almost feel life leaving her. Mary had not even the courage to glance in the mirror anymore, feeling the reflection that now stared back did not at all resemble her. Time was wringing her dry of the robust energy that once engulfed her, dissipating even the crimson tint of her cheeks. It did not appear that Mary Poppins was in possession of enough alchemy to subdue so necessitous a child as Gilbert. This was no more obvious to anyone than her jade authority, who had gone so far as to try to talk the nanny out of it - in his own badgering sort of way. 

"Very interesting choice of swan song, Mary Poppins," he commented as they ascended from the clouds for what was more likely than not their final landing, the day after her twenty-ninth birthday. "I personally thought you would have committed yourself to something more . . . lucrative, perhaps?"

But Mary had known that such a conversation would transpire and maintained, "I have not in all of my years ever arrived to a family with the front running motive of personal gain, thank you very much. You know exactly how I make my selections - I arrive where I am needed most and that's precisely where we're headed."

"Best of luck then," the parrot sighed as he allowed his passenger's feet to once again touch ground. "I mean to say - I'm well aware you turned the irrefutable George Banks himself into a man with the potential to obtain candidacy for Father of the Year, among your many other accomplishments, but this boy and his father will try you more than any other ever has. Mark my words."

And for as much as Mary Poppins might have wished otherwise, she was eventually forced to admit that the parrot was indeed correct. From the moment she had been introduced to the young Gilbert Gettings, the exhausted woman knew it would take everything left in her being to reshape the boy's shoddy state of mind. But it would be worth it, she reminded herself. No matter how tolling it ever was, no matter how unappreciative the children leaving her possession were, it was always worth it. And should she fail to win the little boy's heart, no one could deny that Mary Poppins' effort to contribute to a laudable cause was valiant. The pair needed all of the help they could get.

Mister Gettings jocundly had received the well-dressed and rouged woman (for some things could never change) though this had not necessarily surprised her. Merely a few seconds in the senior Gilbert's company revealed him to be both artful and articulate, as someone in his position was expected to be - and he was certainly of a high station, for a glimpse around his home made this quite clear as well. While the man was not of noble blood, his ranking of a working man was hardly one to scoff at. Mister Gettings was one of the most powerful shipping magnates in Europe. As a younger man, he had combined forces with several leading English businessmen and engineers to create a transportation company that had quickly earned a magnanimous reputation for safely and promptly shipping passengers and cargo alike transatlantically with the use of their diverse fleet. He had married late in life compared to most, only once the corpulent tycoon had a secure grasp on his industry, but there was nothing particularly unconventional about his choice of bride, if one overlooked the fact that she was his complete opposite. Misses Gilbert Gettings was naturally the daughter of a socialite, but after that there were few similarities between the pair. Unlike her ruddy husband, Misses Gettings was tall and pale, with blonde hair and soft eyes. She lacked a booming voice like her husband's, always unusually soft-spoken. And though she was rather pretty, she did not possess the charm or charisma of Gilbert, either. They did love each other, however, and they both adored their son, Gilbert Gettings Jr., when he came into their lives. But the mother had precious little time on earth with him, for just three short days after his birth, Misses Gettings passed away and neither of the Gilberts would ever be the same without her.

Five years later, young Gilbert had grown into a striking resemblance of his mother, red hair excluded. Every time his father had ever laid eyes on him after his wife's passing, he saw no one else but the woman he loved. Her death had embittered him, needless to say, and though every beautiful young woman sought his attention, there was apparently no more room in his broken heart for another love - though he never stated this outright. What was left of it was reserved for his son, who through the years was showered with everything he ever desired and resultantly transformed from an adorable little boy into a pretentious and spoiled urchin. Young Gilbert reaped from his father all of the sweets, toys, pets, and amusements that a child could ever dream of asking for without a second thought, but he never received the one thing he truly needed - the care and attention of a mother that he could never recall possessing.

As was to be expected, the Gettings child was placed in the care of the most reputable nannies available since his infancy. In recent years, with his tyrannical behavior growing strongly with the rest of him, the usual story became that no amount of the family's fortune could sustain them for long, or that Mister Gettings felt his son's caretakers were entirely too overbearing as they tried to combat the boy's fury, to which his father was oblivious. Not long after such a particular departure was Mary Poppins welcomed aboard, who was determined to stand her ground until her job was done.

But although the cunning little boy was not entirely aware of it, he had managed to do something to Mary Poppins that no child had ever done before on just that first day. Gilbert had frightened her. There was no outstandingly horrific catastrophe that had invoked the spark of fright. To the nanny it was just another day spent with a selfish little child who would come to learn his lesson, but something so simple proved to be terrifying enough for the shell-shocked woman. It was not just another day. It was one of a very limited amount of days left. By the time Mary escaped into the rain that first evening for a rapport with the parrot, only eight remained. It was much more terrifying to think of what might not occur during that time than what potentially could. Mary Poppins might, for the first and last time, fail in her duties. She might slip out of existence one swiftly approaching night, unnoticed.

* * *

By the time the next morning dawned, Mary had sworn to herself that she would never again waste her time stewing over such lurid thoughts. Doing so would equate to dying even before her time expired. That particular day would be devoted only to Gilbert and the several important errands his father had entrusted to Mary Poppins to complete. It was a great deal to occupy the morning with. But somewhere around noontime, while returning to the Gettings' home from the post office, practically dragging Gilbert by the shirt collar lest he wreak havoc, Mary received a slight reprieve from her draining task. While for one brief moment her heart leapt with joy, the scene before her would in many ways tug at the last thread holding her practically perfect form together and unravel her.

* * *

"Hello, Bert." The artist caught the words as they drifted toward him from behind. He discontinued his hastened step and turned around, though he knew well before completing this motion who it was that had addressed him. 

"Mary Poppins," he marveled, tipping his hat with his free hand. A large and battered portfolio occupied the other. "Fancy meeting up with you again so soon."

For the first time in several days, she smiled genuinely. "Yes, well, I'm now to be found in the company of Gilbert here." Mary turned her gaze down upon him as Bert nodded in recognition to the boy.

His gaze once again meeting with Mary's, he continued speaking. "I was just--"

But at about this time, young Gilbert grew ever-so bored of the situation and decided that they had idled long enough. He swept another glance over the strange man, starting from his gray slacks that were a mite too short to reach his worn leather shoes up to his ruffled cardigan and scarf before interrupting.

"Mary Poppins," he fumed crossing his arms, "might we finish with the balderdash and carry on?"

This earned him the most invective glance the woman could muster before she insisted in her sweetest singsong voice. "Now, Gilbert. You know it's impolite to interrupt when someone is speaking. I was in the middle of a conversation with this gentleman and he with I. Now do please apologize to Bert."

It took several moments for Mary to silently and unambiguously pry an atonement from the redhead, and the words that grumbled out of his mouth were far from sincere. This did not seem to bother Bert, however, who kindly accepted Gilbert's apology before continuing with a smile.

"Not a problem, Mary Poppins. I was only saying that I was just rushing off to an - engagement. So if you'll pardon me, I'd hate to be later 'an I already am." In a whirlwind moment he was gone, leaving his friend utterly dumbfounded. Certainly the boy's outbreak had nothing to do with Bert's departure. Mary had never known his character to be so easily bruised. But all the same he had done something the woman could never recall him doing before. He had left her there without a second thought, rushing off to something more important. A new sort of pain erupting from her chest, Mary Poppins began to lead Gilbert back home again. But in her state of absentmindedness, she did not heed the fact that the boy was positively seething, a most unfortunate ignorance.

The Gettings boy was still flushed with indignance when he returned home with his nanny. No one ever struck him like such with impunity, and Gilbert swore inwardly that Mary Poppins would be no exception. Very soon she would be gone like all of the rest of his meddling governesses. He knew just how to rid the household of her, and would work like lightning to see his plan succeed.

* * *

Later that same evening Mary Poppins was still very much oblivious to the fact that her charge was plotting her downfall, the sharp pain in her heart still preoccupying her. She could not fathom why Bert had departed like he had. There was certainly no malice in his action, but all the same . . . of course, with the amount of times she had left him behind for something seemingly more important, it seemed perfectly acceptable on Bert's part to do likewise for once. But who had ever said that what Mary Poppins ventured to was worth more than what she left behind? As she drifted into Gilbert's room, moonlight having guided her path through the hallways, she decided it didn't very much matter. Just one more departure and she'd be gone for good. 

"What are you doing out of bed?" Mary insisted, instinct snapping her back into reality, where she noticed a flaming red head bobbing back and forth as it swayed with the motion of the rocking chair beneath it.

"Looking at my compass," Gilbert explained lethargically. Mary Poppins knelt down and examined the contents of his hands. Filling up two palms was indeed a golden compass, shining in the firelight.

"It's lovely," she admitted. "A gift from your father?"

The boy gazed at her with sullen eyes. "My mother," he corrected. "Father says she had it picked out for me since before I was born. She knew I'd be a sea captain someday."

Mary smiled at him, but the suddenly pained boy rushed to escape her view and return the treasure to the drawer he had procured it from. He then retreated back to bed as the woman led him.

"You love ships, do you?" The nanny ventured, gazing at the models all around the room as she tucked him in.

"Of course!" Gilbert gasped. "I've sailed on so many! Have you?"

"Only one."

He was now very interested. "Oh, which? The Campania? The Lucania?"

She closed her eyes, disguising the wince that sprung suddenly from within. "No," Mary whispered. "The Etruria."


	6. Three's Magic

**Update 08/30/10 - Dear Readers**:

It seems to me that either an error occurred on the site after its transfer or the wrong version of this chapter got posted to begin with so long ago. My apologies! Hopefully now it makes more sense. If anything else seems totally askew, please let me know!

Always,

Margo

* * *

It had not taken Bert very long at all to become intrigued by the mysterious character that was Mary Poppins. There was most assuredly something different about her, in so many aspects really, and after only a couple of meetings with her, the man came to realize the amount of power she commanded. The magical slant to Mary was most obvious, of course, but to Bert that was not her most impressive feature. What never failed to dazzle him was borne of a different sort of alchemy - or so it seemed. The most simple and miraculous of all of Mary Poppins' tricks was her innate ability to pop into his life shortly after he had discounted her. Bert never liked to think that he had ever truly forgotten the stunning lady, but even he could not deny that from time to time other matters moved to occupy the center stage of his mind.

Coincidentally, it had not been long after he watched Mary Poppins take to the sky that Bert decided to exercise his youthful age and bountiful ambition, and put into motion an always-cherished idea to rove the mysterious and measureless world. For as foolhardy as Herbert Alfred may have seemed, however, he was sensible enough to understand that trekking the globe was not nearly as simple as it may have appeared. He would need some sort of a plan, but a bit of his own inexplicable magic would prove to serve him well. After eventually abandoning his beloved London months later and passing his time in various English cities, a stroke of luck in Liverpool would help Bert leave the country behind altogether as he came under the command of the Chief Steward of the RMS Etruria for a voyage to New York. After only three days at sea, Bert was already considering his position one of the best occupations of his life. He remained a jack-of-all-trades even miles away from the shore - his prudent overseers had soon learned how versatile the young sailor's talents were and engaged him in a number of tasks. No matter if he was serving meals to diners or straightening the officers' quarters, Bert was always pleasant and reliable. The passengers and crew members grew rather fond of bumping into him, knowing he was good for a laugh. The enjoyment provided by those in his company, not to mention the bright sunshine and the pungent sea air that engulfed him, had launched him into a state of blissful ignorance. So at peace was he to be out of the haste of the grimy city that nothing seemed to matter anymore. It was certainly of no concern of his that once the ship reached New York in a mere three days, he would have no idea where he was going next or an inkling as to how he would get there. Staring out into the endless blue expanse made him feel as if the party would never reach a destination. This thought was no cause for anxiety either. Should the ship gracefully cut into the oncoming waves forevermore, Bert imagined he would be quite content. Nowhere in his mind was there the slightest desire to return home. All that seemed to exist anywhere was the rhythmic mass of water and the gargantuan ship that sailed it.

His intoxication was not helped on the afternoon of that fourth day at sea by the fact that the bitter cold had chased nearly everyone off the decks, making Bert's own little world all the more believable. He was still working as hard as ever, however, presently laying warm, felt blankets on the abandoned deck chairs for anyone who might decide to venture into the chilly sunshine. Bert had fallen into a pattern, scooping up a dozen or so blankets from their storage before laying them precisely the same way on each chair. Most of the time it was hard to see over the contents of his hands, but he hardly worried about knocking into anyone on the vacant deck. By the time he had reached the last half-dozen chairs on the port side, the sailor was just about numb from the whipping winds - but not so deadened that he could not notice the lone passenger who had braved the weather to recline on the deck, apparently lost in her own reverie. Her skin seemed to be mimicking the pale blue of her coat and skirt, though, and so Bert could not help but ask, "Blanket, miss?"

Her head snapped in his direction, cerulean eyes growing wide after briefly gazing upon him. In a moment, she was on her feet. "Bert," a familiar voice answered. "How lovely to see you again."

For a second's time, however, Bert remained puzzled as he tried to pin the woman before him to a name. He was believing her to be a passenger he had met while onboard before the sound of her voice fully registered in his mind, snapping him brusquely back into reality. "Mary Poppins," he declared, and the smile of recognition that crawled across the woman's face was all of the proof Bert needed that he had been correct. A wonderful memory from home had been transported into his abstraction, demolishing the chill that crept through his body. His work now finished as he flopped the last remaining blanket onto what had been her chair, he wanted nothing more than to speak with her again. He chuckled. "We do seem to meet under peculiar circumstances, don't we?"

But Mary could only shrug. "If you consider earning our livings a peculiar circumstance, I suppose." Her eyes focused momentarily on his glossy-buttoned jacket. "Though I must say I almost didn't recognize you."

"Oh, just another whim o' mine, I suppose. You're looking lovely yourself, Mary. 'ere on 'oliday, I s'pose?"

At once she stopped fingering the purple feather tucked into the brim of her hat and scowled. "Never! No, I assure you this is very much a business engagement. I should have never left London were it not for some - special circumstances."

Bert could help but grow perplexed at the woman's sudden reaction, but did not feel it within his business to question this. Instead, he ventured to inquire only of the more obvious."Pardon me if I sound meddlesome, Mary Poppins, but where're the children, then?"

For a moment he wondered if he should not have asked, for Mary, who he always known to be the epitome of composedness, suddenly froze and glanced back to the chairs where she had been resting. Finding them empty, she whipped back around to him and asked, "You haven't seen him, have you Bert? A little blonde boy?" But Bert, who would not even have noticed Mary had she not addressed him first, could only shake her head, intensifying the woman's panic yet again though she did a very good job of disguising it.

"I should have known something of this sort would happen! I must have dozed off...but, honestly! You would think an eight-year-old boy of his position would no better than to do something like this!" Bert listened to the fuming Mary as he scanned the surroundings for the described child, whose nanny did the same. The wooden decks were still largely empty, though this did not very much help their search. The brunette was clinging to the ship's alabaster rail and looking overboard when something in the distance caught the gentleman's eye.

"That couldn't be 'im, could it, Mary?" He asked, pointing past the Etruria's twin funnels. Following Bert's finger up from the ground, she too caught sight of his findings and gasped. A little person could be seen halfway up some of the ship's ratline.

"Oh, he wouldn't dare-" The woman bristled in amazement before launching into her fastest attainable walk, the tails of her coat flapping in the wind to reveal their lime green lining. Bert was quick on her heels, careful to avoid her wildly-swinging handbag or the point of her umbrella. Eventually the spirited lady came to a halt, craning her neck up to examine the figure above.

Bert imagined that it had to be the child in question for shortly thereafter she called, "David, do please get down from there this _instant_!"

"Aw, but Mary!" Came floating down. "The view's gorgeous! I'll be down in just a bit!"

"You're going to get yourself killed!" She attempted to reason with him, but David would have none of it.

"I'll be fine!"

Bert shot an inquisitive glance at Mary, almost asking if she wanted his assistance. But she managed to communicate in a brief look of her own that she had matters well in hand at readjusted her gaze to the boy. Suddenly, a violent wind erupted, blowing this way and that across the ratline, jostling it and its contents about. The nanny's eyes seemed to follow the wind pattern, and due to her calmness Bert could only wonder if she was somehow causing it. A moment later his thoughts were interrupted, however, by the audible moan of an exasperated child.

"Mary Poppins, help me!" He cried, almost as if he had no memory of defying her wishes to scurry back down moments before. "Yes, indeed," she complied. After a quick glance around, Bert watched her open her umbrella and sail upwards, before gingerly stepping onto a piece of the rope, collecting her charge with a few inaudible words, and landing safely next to him once again. The boy called David rushed to straighten out his coat as the nanny folded her umbrella back to its resting position.

"That was really quite despicable of you, David." Mary insisted. "We're here to meet your uncle, imagine if he had witnessed your antics."

The pudgy boy stared at his toes before the sounds of chatter were carried to him on a breeze. "Here he comes now! You don't imagine he saw, do you?"

She glanced at the approaching group of men once directed by the boy. Their leader, a mustached fellow in a long, fur-trimmed coat, was chatting excitedly, pausing occasionally only to laugh. "Luckily for you," Mary decided, "I don't think he did." Soon, the prestigious-looking group was upon the three of them, and Bert could not help but feel awkward. His uncomfortableness only increased when the animated leader took a look at him and asked Mary, "Eh, what's this, company?"

But Mary pleasantly looked at Bert before beginning an introduction. "Bert, allow me the honor of introducing you to His Grace the Duke of Fife." Shocked, Bert fumbled through his acknowledgement, but the jovial duke seemed only to notice Bert's uniform.

"Ah!" He exclaimed. "Certainly, man, you haven't the inexorableness to moddycoddle the Duke with terminological inexactitudes pertaining to the circumstancialities of our peregrination!"

Bert barely caught the man's request, buried as it was under the burden of his word choice, but nonetheless he had an idea of what was being asked of him and couldn't help but try to phrase his response similarly. "No, yer grace! But we're - erm - luxuriating in - unchallengeably splendiferous meteorological encompassment, to be sure - and we're - traversing in a very propitious fashion!"

The duke and his entourage laughed with delight before once again his grace piped up. "Finally! After all of my globetrotting there is one who can challenge my !" The sailor suddenly felt compelled to live up to the gentleman's praise and so replied, "I certainly can't be the only one to escape your floccinaucinihilipilification! Where is it that you've traveled to?"

"Well, our journey was inagurated in Liverpool, and from there we headed off to New York. But after we visit America we'll go to New Zealand and perhaps Nunathloogagamiutbingoi. Then we'll sail to Queenstown, detour to Sydney before taking our jolly time traveling Europe before heading home. What do you say to that, my lad?"

But here Bert was forced to concede to the duke, who had fairly won the wordsmithing contest. "Searching my entire list of abstrusenesses, your grace, I'm afraid that all I can say is - !"

Another approving uprorar filled the air, before the Duke of Fife turned to Mary Poppins. "A fine chap he is, this friend of yours, ay?" Mary smiled at Bert before answering. "Of course. Those who do not suffer from sesquippedaliophobia hold quite a bit of honorificabilitudinitas with me."

A few cheers were emitted for her before the nobleman once again addressed Bert after glancing at his pocket watch. "Tell me, my lad, would you be so kind as to join us for tea? We stopped to collect young David here and it's now approaching high tea time. I'd love to hear more of this "supercolossus" business of yours. Was that it?" ", your grace," he corrected. "An' I'd be honored." "Excellent, then!" The duke exclaimed. He then turned to address Mary. "Louise will be in her suite, Mary Poppins. I do believe you wanted to speak with her?" "Oh yes, thank you very much!" She hastened to depart from the group as they continued on, Bert the only one seeming disappointed to watch her go.

* * *

But for as crestfallen as Bert was to watch her depart that evening, he was equally as thrilled to see her figure, dressed in powder blue, stroll up and down the deck that night. His eyes merely followed the pattern of her pacing for awhile before he shattered the silence of the darkness with, "Ay, Mary Poppins!"

Mary's head shot up, seeing where her blonde charge had once perched on the ratline none other than Bert. Her eyes twinkled.

"Lovely night, care to join me?"

"Bert! What on Earth do you think you're doing?" He only laughed. "The li'l bloke was right! The view's a beauty!" The woman's sigh was audible from even where he sat, but she was quick to respond.

"Well, since you don't seem too keen on coming down - if I must I must!" And in a moment she was ascending rapidly once again before spinning, folding her umbrella, and sitting carefully in one unbelievable movement.

"You needn't worry about losing your balance," Bert insisted, the more proper accent he had tried to muster with the duke returning. "This structure's composed of the finest monofilaments available." "Oh, don't you start that again!" Mary ordered with her brightest smiled. "Duke Alexander was quite taken with you. I must admit I am rather fond of that word of yours, though."

Bert grinned. "I've got a few tricks o' me own up me sleeves, Mary Poppins. An' I imagine they'll all come in handy on this expedition the duke's invited me on. Though I can't begin to imagine how translates to anythin'." They both looked at each other, giggling, before the brunette declared, "I do believe it's a cognate."

A silence followed before Bert quietly continued. "An' what's this I hear? You won't be comin' along?" She looked away before responding quite simply. "No, I won't."

The man mused, biting his lower lip. "I s'pose it would just be a waste for you, ay? What with the fact that you kin prolly blink and wind up wherever your 'eart desires, eh?"

"Really!" She harrumphed, taking more offense than Bert ever dreamed she would. "It should be so simple as all that!"

But he wasn't convinced. "Oh, you know yeh kin! Someday you'll prove it! Or maybe," he pondered aloud, recalling all he had learned at tea that afternoon, "you just want to get back to Buckingham Palace as quick as yeh kin! An' li'l David! I wish you wouldda told me that was just a pet name! A bit embarrasin', it was, that I didn't even recognize the duke's nephew as Prince Edward the Ayth!"

"Minor technicalities, really," Mary defended without a touch of hubris. "And for your information when I return to London I'll be leaving David and all of his royal family members and Buckingham Palace behind - I suppose the duke didn't tell you that, did he?"

"Oh, he mentioned it," Bert admitted. "But I can't say I believed 'im."

"You're not coming back to London, are you Bert?" She asked, all matter-of-factness gone from her voice.

He tried to smile coyly to lift her spirits. "The duke told you that, did he?" For it was quite true that the sailor would be joining Alexander in his journeys once his contract on the Etruria had expired. The duke was very fond of traveling and Bert was certain that this was his long-awaited opportunity to see more of the world. When he had initially formulated his plans after being extended the offer of traveling in his grace's company, he hadn't particularly planned to return to London again.

"Oh, he mentioned it," Mary mimiced. "But I can't say I believed him."

A shiver that escaped her moments later snapped Bert's thought process. "Where are my manners?" He chided himself before asking, "May I?"

She was unsure just what he meant, but nodded all the same. Shortly thereafter, Bert was unwrapping the orange scarf from around his neck, being careful not to unbalance himself on the delicate ropes. Mary grabbed a hold of his shoulder to prevent such an action as well before sitting back as he gently wrapped the scarf around her neck.

"Thank you," she breathed, smoothing it down over the front of her coat. Her eyes relocked with his for a moment before he turned his attention to the milky sky.

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Bert murmered, tracing patterns in the stars with his gaze. Mary agreed with a nod. "'ave you ever just sat on the rooftops back 'ome at night, watching the stars twinkle?" "I can't say that I have," she replied, looking down into the water below.

"Yeh really should sometime. P'rhaps someday I'll show you the sights." "Oh?" She inquired, looking at him once again. "Does this mean you're coming back, now?"

He beamed at her. "We'll see. I would for you. But 'ow would I know that you'd still be there? You do quite a bit of movin' aroun' yerself."

Mary sighed. "I may move from family to family but I never leave London. I told you earlier these were some special circumstances."

A question suddenly formed on Bert's lips, astonished as he was by the evening, and he couldn't hold it back. "Why do you stay?"

But just as quickly Mary retorted. "Why do you go?" And silence enveloped them once again as Bert feared he had overstepped his boundaries. This feeling only intensified when the woman declared. "I best retire, it's getting rather late. You can descend all right, can't you?" He affirmed that he could and Mary moved to untie the scarf from around her neck.

"No, Mary Poppins. You keep it." She smiled down at the scarf, ceasing momentarily in her movement to descend. "I'll wear it every time I arrive in or leave London. I'll remember this particular flight. And I'll remember a very wonderful friend."

Bert held Mary's arm as she once again opened her umbrella before departing. Long after she had returned indoors did he remain nearly frozen in his position on the rope. He thought of all of the adventures that would come for him, but ultimately he thought of her. She was both the most beautiful and most peculiar woman he had ever met, though Bert did not exactly understand why. He did not understand _her_. He wondered why that mattered to his quite nonsensical self, but it did. Often times he found himself thinking that he and Mary Poppins had much in common, but that simply couldn't be. She was far too practical to share classification with him. But what made her practical? What did she consistently do? She flew on an umbrella, she nannied children - but there wasn't much correlation.

Sometime later, the reality of it all slapped Bert hard in the face, to the point where he grasped at the ropes to keep from falling. Everything Mary Poppins did make perfect sense. He should have seen it from the very beginning, for all the evidence was there.

Whether it be a drinking glass, a family business or even an heir to the throne - Mary Poppins took broken pieces and put them back together. Though in the future, to his blunder, this realization would slip his mind.


	7. All In Your Head

Dear Readers,

I'm late - I know, I know! I apologize so very much! I've got this horrible problem of thinking backwards about this story - I've been brewing still about the end of things and even events that will probably never make it into the final chapters. Oh dear! But this chapter underwent a few renovations of its own, namely that the next chapter will finish off the retelling of this particular event beginning below.

Before I keep going, I want to sincerely thank Steeleafan, Gabrielle, Temple, redneckqueen-93, Steggy Likes Juice Boxes, and LadyLizaElliott for their over-abundance of kindness and support! You guys keep me going and are the reason for all of this! Thank you so, so much! I'd like to reply to a few questions/comments here. Firstly, I will admit that by the end of the story, you will find out the purpose of "Every Second Tuesdays." I'll go so far as to say in two, perhaps three chapters, that will be discussed. I adored my "writer encouragement" as well, and it really motivated me! Thank you very, very much! And lastly, one of my most favorite lines from the movie was in fact "When dukes and mahardjas..." and I felt the song had so much potential and revealed so much. I read entirely too far into that, thankfully most of it didn't get included in the chapter ;).

Speaking of reading entirely too far into things, I swear I really did use the movie to come up with this chapter and the one that follows it (and all of them...) For everyone who speaks of the final chapter, I have to say it may not be for awhile yet. I am expecting next chapter to be the halfway point of the story. It will, however, be the last glimpse into the "past" as far as past families go. Since I feel guilty for not including it in this chapter, I will say that for all of the readers who are behind the pairing that is Mary and Bert, you will receive a small token of my esteem and affection in Chapter 8. From there, things will go downhill. I do hope this chapter won't killed the story for anyone, but I understand if it does. As a final comment, I'll mention this chapter is in the "past" again.

But anyway, I'd like to thank you all very much again! I appreciate all of the encouragement so very much! I only hope that you continue to enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

Long before, on a bitter night somewhere on the Atlantic, Mary Poppins had looked into the eyes of Bert and felt something she hadn't for a very long time: love. For quite awhile afterwards, the recollection of this would always bring comfort to her. That is, of course, until enough time passed where such a statement seemed preposterous. Bert was traipsing the globe, happy somewhere else, and Mary had her hands full with so many children, never leaving much time for idleness to spend on thinking. When such opportunities did arise, they were filled with the thought that no one could love her, she was perhaps just that undesireable. It hardly mattered, anyway. The two lived in different worlds. And it seemed Mary's only got all the more complicated with each passing day.

* * *

"Oh, Uncle Albert! This is a fine sort of 'hello!'" Mary Poppins sighed upon stepping into the man's very familiar dining room and setting her belongings down. It was not often that the nanny received a chance in between families to visit with him - at least not for very long - and that present moment was no different. She was only able to arrive that evening, for as unfortunate as it was, to attend to some serious business. Mary knew her Uncle Albert would be the only one able to help her - he was so very good at these things - but the man she discovered upon entering the house was certainly not in a frame of mind to attend to anything of such consequence. This was most evident by the fact that redfaced Uncle Albert was howling like a jackal, which would be bad enough was he not also hovering blithely over the furniture, coming dangerously close to knocking into his high shelves of bric-a-brac and the antlers of the game he kept mounted on the walls. Should it have been anyone other than his cognizant niece spectating the event, Uncle Albert would appear to be a very strange character indeed. But Mary knew the nature of the beast quite well and realized the outburst could be attributed to one thing alone: the printing of his latest article in the Times, a copy of which was clenched violently in Uncle Albert's flailing hand. 

He gazed down on Mary, but the cackling did not subside in the least. "Mary! You're - you're - here! How wonderful!"

Mary Poppins' heart burned with anxiety. She had no time for such nonsense with such an urgent quandary pressing down firmly upon her brow. How she hated to bicker with the kindly old man, but Mary found her cheeks growing evermore crimson with irritation as she exclaimed, "I simply can't imagine anything in that paper being humorous enough to cause all of this! It's rather uncomely, really."

"You'll just - have to forgive me, Mary! Hasn't something so simple or silly ever gotten - stuck - in you're head - and you - you just couldn't get it out? And then it just seems - all the more funny the longer it's - in your head - and - !" Even the woman's chiding could not stifle his chuckling, which promptly broke into another roar.

Mary crossed her arms in disgust. "Certainly not, I should say! I don't understand why, when people decide to plant ideas in their heads, they're always so - so crude!"

Uncle Albert was quick to combat. "But it's - it's not crude! It's funny! Let me try - and tell it to you--" It took several interrupted attempts before he finally managed to read from the battered page, "A very bedraggled gentleman recently stopped by to visit me. He asked, 'Uncle Albert, I'm in a horrible way. Working such long hours, I can't seem to ever get a rest. How can I catch up on my sleep?' I thought for a moment before the only logical solution came to mind. 'Well,' I offered, 'you might try chasing it around the bed.'" Once again, the elderly gentleman exploded in a frenzy, doubling over before flipping in midair.

She simply could not find the humor in it however, and pointedly asked, "Uncle Albert, how long have you been up there?"

The man saw no sense in lying and so - still laughing - freely admitted, "I'd say - around - maybe over - two days now. I just can't help it!" He coughed dryly before starting anew.

"Yes you can! I really do need your help, Uncle Albert, and if you would be so kind, it's a rather pressing matter!"

"Of course, my dear," Uncle Albert assured, "I'll be right down - really! Just - just give me a minute!"

Mary Poppins had given him a minute, an hour, and eventually the entire evening. Now bedecked in her dressing gown, she sat and fingered at its lace while she continued to beg for the man to descend. The young lady eventually conceded to the fact that it would not be anytime soon before the humor escaped Uncle Albert's mind, and so began seeking help with her still-floating mentor. She hurried to her carpet bag in the drawing room and produced several worn, cream-colored papers before seating herself again.

"Over the past few weeks, I've gotten several of these, Uncle Albert," Mary explained, craning her head upwards and raising the beaten sheets before her face. It appeared as though they had been ripped up once before being assembled again. They all contained a few lines of the same handwriting, scrolled in black ink, and though the context varied slightly, they all seemed to carry the same idea before ending abruptly.

He continued to chuckle and snort as he drew closer to the lighted chandelier to better observe his niece. "Surely you've gotten those before."

"Well, yes," she admitted, "I've received various sorts of - documents - I suppose, but never addressed directly to me! These clearly state 'Dear Mary Poppins.' And then they go on to the effects of - well, this one for instance." Mary gripped one of the letters and read. "'It's been several years since we parted ways, but I must admit I need the assistance of a nanny of such-' and then it simply ends! It's obviously one of the parents I've been employed by in the past, and it sounds urgent enough, but none are completed, and never signed! You can read between the lines much better than I can, Uncle Albert, and surely if you'd just come down you could-"

Suddenly - though just barely over Unle Albert's continual shrieks of amusement, Mary managed to detect the ringing of the doorbell. Her patience grew all the thinner.

"Really, Uncle Albert! It's got to be getting late, and now it sounds as if the complaints are going to start arriving!" The man never ceased and thus Mary rose from her seat with a huff, leaving the papers behind to retreat to her carpet bag again. Quickly, she retrieved her silk robe, wrapping it around herself before grabbing her nightcap as well, though her aburn locks remained flowing as she set it on her head. Feeling the slightest bit more presentable, she cracked the door open. A pair of cineral eyes stared back into hers, and instinctively Mary swung open the door.

Three years later, she was standing face to face with a rather out-of-breath Bert.

* * *

"Mary!" He exclaimed, a smile creasing into his face. Even though she was presented in such a state as he had never seen, Bert knew immediately that it was her. "I was hardly expectin' ta find you here! I heard a terrible commotion though on my way 'ome, an' I had to stop to see if Uncle Albert was all right." 

Even he knew that quite a lot of information was absent from the story. Certainly much had happened since the last time the two had met, but Mary Poppins, being the woman he had always known, did not seem to be quick to press the matter. Instead, in a way similar to his own she responded, "Oh, well, I'd hardly consider him 'all right' but - do come in. I beg your pardon for my appearance, but perhaps you can help Uncle Albert." He readily stepped inside, and after shutting and locking the door once again, Mary led him into the dining room, where the picture hadn't changed.

"Oh, Bert! I've got to tell you this one - listen to this!" He insisted casually upon the pair's appearance, retreating to the printed words once again. "Tell me, why are the people of Ireland putting more money into banks?"

Bert thought for a moment, before he declared, "I 'on't know, Uncle Albert. Why?"

He erupted again before replying. "Because it's Dublin!" The man on the ground joined in the follies of laughter before Mary pleaded with him.

"Oh, please, Bert! Do try to calm him down, it's getting serious! This will be the third day he's up there!"

His eyes grew wide with surprise. "Third day? Doesn't 'e get tired? Or hungry?"

She shook her head, the light glimmering off her long hair. "I'm afraid not. With all of - that - stuck in his mind there's room for little else, which is going to create quite a dangerous situation if he doesn't come out of it soon! I'm only glad I was here to find him."

Something in Mary's last comment provoked Bert to ask a question he had been pondering over since the door opened. "You don't usually stay here, do you, Mary Poppins?"

"No," the nanny offered, "luckily I'm not currently stationed anywhere. I managed to sneak in between for a bit of help, but it looks as if this is turning into a holiday! And what a jolly holiday it will be!" With that, she was off on a discursion, turning her fury to its cause. "Now, really, Uncle Albert. The sooner you get down, the sooner you can figure this out"-Mary grabbed the papers on the table-"and get to the source of it."

"What seems to be the trouble, Mary Poppins?" Bert offered.

The woman, being largely ignored by her still-hysterical Uncle Albert, wearily turned in his direction. "Oh, it's this." She held up the papers and continued. "Someone appears to need my help and I just can't figure out who." Bert took a glance at them before his jaw nearly dropped.

"Is something the matter?" Mary asked, surveying the astonished look on her friend's face.

"Well," he said, floundering for words. "Those papers." He took them from her hands and surveyed them each closely before continuing. "Mary, I-I wrote these. But I never actually - I - destroyed 'em."

* * *

As if they weren't already, things began to seem very odd to Mary Poppins. After being away for years, Bert coincidentially popped in -and had sought her help weeks before but never truly pursued it. 

"Destroyed?" She interrogated. "But whatever for? You apparently needed help, didn't you?"

He fumbled with the hat in his hands. "Well, not exactly me, but rather - a friend o' mine, a good friend o' mine. But I just couldn't bring myself to ask what wit' bein' away an' - an' you're a busy woman, Mary Poppins. I can't interrupt yer agenda. It just didn't feel right to ask yeh, but I s'pose yeh got the message anyway. I'm sorry."

"Do you still need help, Bert?" Mary replied, largely idisregarding his statements.

"Well, my pal still does," Bert managed with difficulty. "Yeh see, he ain't got alot, really. Most precious things in the world to 'im are his wife an' three little girls. He's only a sweep, he is, but they get by. But yeh see, his wife's mother lives alone on a little farm outside the city. She's gotten awfully sick, an' 'is wife and girls went to take care o' things there. He'd help, too, but he's gotta keep working to support 'em all, 'an I guess 'is wife is havin' a hard time tryin' to juggle her mum and the work an' the girls. I suspect it's somethin' yer not - used to doin', Mary. An' well, I figured you wouldn't be -"

"Interested." She finished for him. Bert swallowed and nodded in affirmation. "Well, really, Bert. I realize you must think I'm a terrible snob, but-"

"That's not it a'tol, Mary! It's just, I don't really know if they could afford it an' I'd hate-"

It was not Mary that interrupted him, but rather the wailing of Uncle Albert, now transformed from laughter to tears. He was sitting on the floor beside the leg of a chair. Both stopped abruptly to look at him, neither aware of just how long he had been there.

"Uncle Albert!" His niece declared. "You're back!"

"Well, of course I am!" He insisted, blubbering. "How can anyone laugh when someone is so miserable? You will go for those poor people, won't you, Mary?"

She eyed Bert for a moment before responding. "I don't believe I'm wanted any longer, Uncle Albert."

"That's not it, Mary!" Her friend piped up again.

"Then I _will _be going," she informed him simply, her mind decided. "I don't suppose they're expecting me?"

"No," Bert replied. "I'll be heading there tomorrow morning, though. I've been tryin' to go help when I can. You'll be joining me, then?"

"I certainly will." The agreement being reached, Bert bade his goodnights before the two saw him to the door. With their own problems resolved, Mary and Uncle Albert decided to retire for the evening, after both respectively tucked their fateful papers away.

* * *

The next morning, when Bert returned to Kirkby Lane, Mary was ready and waiting for him. Her usual suit was replaced with a simpler blouse and skirt, and carpet bag and umbrella were neatly in tow. After a few moments spent with Uncle Albert, during which many thanks were exchanged, the couple left the home, stopping just outside the door. 

"I hope yeh don't mind the way we travel too much - it's just too far ta walk. And o'course, I can't fly," Bert grinned.

"Not with that attitude, you can't," Mary agreed crisply. "You've seen how easily ideas get stuck in heads. The moment you doubt yourself, the moment you lose the ability." She exhaled. "So how do you propose we get there?"

But Bert, in the interim of Mary's speech, had straddled his silver bicycle, returning his feet to the pavement and throwing out his arms to answer the question. She followed his motioning. "And I'm to sit on the handlebars?"

"Unless that's too awful for yeh." He stated honestly.

"Oh, really!" And with that, Bert took great care securing the woman's belongings to the back of the bicycle before returning to his seat again.

"May I help you?" Bert inquired.

Mary stared at the handlebars, considering the task before deciding. "Yes, you certainly may." Bert, with a leg on either side of the bicycle, took her waist gently in his hands and helped to lift her onto the handlebars, before quickly taking his seat to steady the bicycle.

"Are my hands all right there?" Mary asked, seeing that the only place available to put them was on top of Bert's as his own clenched the bars.

"Quite all right," he assured. "Are you ready now?" She nodded in response, and soon Uncle Albert's house was left far behind them.

It was Bert who spoke up moments later, when he was sure that his friend was comfortable with the situation. "I really do appreciate all of this, Mary Poppins."

"Oh, don't mention it. You've been quite a help to _me_, really - getting Uncle Albert down like that."

He chuckled. "Your uncle is - like you, then?"

Mary Poppins pondered for a minute before responding. "Yes, I suppose he is. In a lot of ways."

"I don't think you've quite got his sense of humor," Bert teased. "Or his accent."

"As a matter of fact," she was quick to correct. "I do have a sense of humor, I just do my best to contain it when it's not needed. And Uncle Albert is not truly American. He tried to transport himself there - as you seem to think I'm so capable of - and he disappeared for two weeks. When he finally came back, he'd had no idea what happened - and that single souvenir was all he got out of it."

Bert's chuckling echoed in the silence that would follow. Eventually, Mary resigned herself to close her eyes to the city sights whizzing by as the sun emerged to dance about them.

"It's a beautiful day." Mary Poppins declared. Bert leaned a bit closer to her face as he rounded a turn, being very careful not to hit anything.

"It certainly is," he agreed.

"A spoonful of sugar," she began to sing, "is all it takes - It changes bread and water into - Tea and cakes."

Bert grinned as his ears absorbed the soft purl of Mary's voice. "It's a lovely little song."

"It's true," she stated simply, listening to the hum of the tires beneath them. "If there's one thing I've learned over the years, that's it, and there's no need to ask for more."

The usual feeling that engulfed Bert when his dear friend made a simple yet somehow profound statement grasped him once again, leaving his body shivering. It had been so long since he felt that way, for surely no one he had met in his travels had ever had the same presence that Mary Poppins did. As the city fell gradually behind them, the two continued their punctuated conversation. Oddly and thankfully enough, Mary never did bring up Bert's travels, and he similarly did not feel a particular want to speak of them. It hardly mattered with them together again. Or, rather, as together as they ever had been.


	8. The Daffodils

Dear Readers,

As always, I come bearing much I wish to gab about! First and foremost, of course, I very much want to thank Sbradley, redneckqueen-93, Steeleafan, Gabrielle, saiai-chan, and all of the people who expend to me so much kindness and motivation! I appreicate it as much now as I always have! I'd also like to thank Gabrielle for alerting me to my little mix-up. The chapter was in need of a good feather dusting, which I went back and gave it. When the whole story is complete, I should like to tidy it up entirely, but that's another project.

Of course, I must give my usual disclaimer about chapter content and interpretations. Firstly, I do wish I had it up a little earlier since the previous chapter was a bit late. However, upon writing I decided that I wanted to try to explain a very curious line in the movie. Perhaps some things are better left untouched, and should you feel this way, I take no offense. I just had to do it. Most of this chapter is my interpretation of the "Jolly Holiday" scene, which - even if some of my choices seem off the wall - did supply me with most of my initial ideas. As I've mentioned, this is our last little look back into the past (sort of) and we do end in the "present." I'm not quite sure how long the chapters following this one will be (as I originally predicted this one as a bit longer than it is), but I do know that the events that follow have been cemented in my mind for quite some time, so I'm knocking on wood that they come out a bit faster without too many alterations.

Anyway, I think that's quite enough talking on my part! Thank you all very, very much! Please enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

Mary could only wonder - after Bert had embarked on his long ride back to the city - if she had made a very grievous error in consenting to assist the maudlin family in the first place. This thought had nothing to do with the fact that its social status was considerably lower than that of most all of the families the nanny had been employed by, but rather it was the Daffodils, or at least Mrs. Daffodil, who did not seem to appreciate her occupation of their scanty home. 

Mary Poppins actually found the change of scenery to be quite enjoyable. Characterful stone walls scudded in front of the house, maneuvering to form paddock fences and property dividers beyond the farm's pretentious barn which was built of matching material. These, in contrast to the city, were the only bits of manufactured gray that dared to impose on the verdant landscape.

But, not entirely unlike the woman's life in the center of London's haste, Mary did indeed find herself amidst several needy children - three to be precise, the oldest being only eight. They were Beatrice, Dinah, and Hannah Daffodil and aside from two years' age, little else separated any of them from one another. All three possessed the ashen hair and rounded face of their father. Mary Poppins had only met him briefly, but his very apparent kindness and vivacity thoroughly rationalized his friendship with Bert. The Mrs. John Daffodil proved to be another story. Mary came to realize that the girls received most prominently from their mother their initial wariness of the nanny. Though their introduction lasted but a few seconds, meeting the woman made Mary Poppins aware of just what she was up against.

Shortly after Bert acquainted his two friends, John led the brunette into his tiny home, poorly lit even in the afternoon sun. The man stopped in its narrow hallway, peeking into an open doorway before ushering for Mary to do likewise. Glancing inside, the woman was met with a small bed that took up most of the space. It supported the slight frame of a dozing, elderly woman. Beside it, a wooden chair was fixed awkwardly, on which perched a rigid, younger woman: John's wife, Rosamund. Mary Poppins was just about to speak when the lady's beady eyes shot her a most piercing glance before focusing on her husband.

"I see Herbert's harlot has arrived. How fortunate," she fumed through gritted teeth.

It was not long after this one-sided exchange that John whisked Mary away, apologizing profusely and insisting that everyone truly wanted her to remain. Knowing that - like his wife - his daughters were having a difficult time coping with the situation, he suggested that the nanny lead the troupe of them out of doors before he embarked for the city. Mary, rather stunned and unable to procure a better idea, did just that.

* * *

As they all strolled the gorgeous fields together, Mary Poppins supposed that this idea of extra help stemmed more from John than from his wife. She could only imagine that Rosamund had abhorred the very suggestion from the start, finding it somehow insulting. In response, the girls seemed to feel rather awkward, torn between the situation. Mary in her mind had decided to forgive her. She could relate to the feeling of watching one's mother die, and while this may not have been an adequate excuse for her horrible treatment of someone trying to help, Mary Poppins knew the stress Rosamund was under. Old age seemed to pull its victims away slowly, though all knew it would not be long now. 

Beatrice, Dinah, and Hannah all grew the more grateful for Mary's company as the afternoon advanced. What was unique about the time spent with these particular children, however, was the fact that the nanny did not utilize any tricks of the supernatural variety in her pursuit to lift the sisters' spirits. A large portion of Mary's mind knew that they all had enough occupying their thoughts without the fantastic overwhelming them. Another part of her mind - as much as she hated to admit it to herself - did not want any of her actions to be subjectable to Mrs. Daffodil's disapproval. With magic or without, it can be assured that Mary Poppins performed her task as dutifully as ever.

The girls took great pleasure that day in showing the woman all of the farm animals, going so far as to instruct her how to feed some of them and delighting in the fact that she would try all they suggested her to. Their spirits remained high until the afternoon, when all of them had gathered at the farm's line of plum trees, picking the ripened fruit.

Mary watched Hannah - the oldest girl - absentmindedly plunk a plum into the wicker basket, gazing across the land before her that was occupied only by weeds and wild grass. Her prior enthusiasm had all but vanished.

"Grandma used to plant that field, all by herself. She did so much. It just doesn't seem fair, Mary Poppins!"

Mary kneeled quickly next to the girl as she threw herself upon the ground, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Dinah and Beatrice soon joined them.

"Of course it is," the woman reasoned gently.

The girl's eyes grew wide as she drew away from the nanny. "How can you say that?"

"Well," she continued as calmly as ever, "think about today, for example. You've done some wonderful things, haven't you? And we've had a lot of fun. But I know you're getting tired. You'd like to do more, wouldn't you? But you've done all you can - you're exhausted. And just think of how soft your bed is going to feel tonight, and how comfortable. You've earned a wonderful sleep and you'll certainly receive it. Your grandmother has worked very hard. She just wants to get her rest."

"But, Mary," Dinah piped in, "how will we know that she's really gotten it?"

By this time, she realized just how close all three of them had come to her, and hugged them in return as they clung to her. "She'll say so," Mary Poppins insisted, resting her chin momentarily on the middle girl's head. "She won't forget about you, you know. She'll always love you - and she'll be sure to tell you all that she's happy."

By the time they all rose and trudged back to the house with baskets in tow, the mood was a bit lighter. In fact, all of the girls hummed along to the pleasant tune ringing from Mary Poppins' throat. Though she was aware the negativity of the situation had not yet seen its end, Mary knew it would no longer have an effect on her.

* * *

She was quite correct with this deduction, for almost immediately after they all entered the house again, their tranquility was stifled by the figure of Rosamund looming against the candlelight. 

"Mummy," Dinah inquired, "where will Mary be sleeping?"

The girl's mother once again pinned the woman with a painful stare. "I'm afraid there's not a spare bed," she informed Mary without a hint of remorse. "You'll have to sleep on the floor of the girl's room."

"That's quite all right," Mary Poppins insisted with a smile as the three girls escorted her to the correct room. Mrs. Daffodil scowled.

"Yer welcome to sleep in our bed, Mary Poppins," Hannah informed her, "we'll sleep on the floor."

"Nonsense," she replied, bedecked for bed just like the girls. "I'll be just fine. Sleeping on the ground is very good for one's back." Presently, she located her carpet bag, which along with her umbrella had been found earlier, tossed carelessly into a corner of the room. From it she then drew a blanket and a pillow and fitted them in the space between the foot of the big bed that the sisters shared and the wall.

"Now then," she exhaled, rubbing her palms against each other. "Come along, time for bed." The girls obediently slipped under the covers before Mary pulled them up to their necks.

"Good night," she offered sweetly, smoothing over the quilt.

They all offered a chorus of goodnights before Hannah added, "Thank you, Mary."

"You're very welcome," Mary Poppins insisted, and resumed her place on the floor.

Shortly thereafter, when the woman had made herself as comfortable as was possible on the shivery floor, a burst of motion and warmth caused her to open her sapphire eyes. They stared directly into those of the youngest Daffodil girl.

"And just what are you doing out of bed?"

"We want to sleep here," Beatrice replied with a smile. "It's good for our backs!"

She sighed, looking to her other side to realize that all three of them had relocated. Mary could not argue with their logic. "Oh, very well!" She conceded. The newly added warmth dissipated the chill that had crept into Mary's bones. In the morning when she awoke, the only heat left to be detected was a burning in her spine. The girls had already woken up, but as she would discover, their grandmother had just fallen into slumber.

* * *

The girls had taken the news considerably better than was expected - thanks to Mary Poppins, presumably. Rosamund Daffodil fell into a terrible devastation, and Mary found herself stuck in some sort of awkward void. The girls being ordered by their mother to stay with her, Mary had drifted outside, alone. It registered in her mind that it would probably be best for her to leave then, but that somehow did not feel appropriate. Staying certainly did not make the situation much better, either. She soon alerted herself also to the fact that the particular day happened to be the second Tuesday of May, though even that could not compel the woman to leave. For the first time in her memory, Mary neglected one misery to attend to another. She remained on that wall until being snapped out of her reverie by two approaching men. John and Bert had returned. She managed to express a few words of sympathy to the girls' father before he rushed inside, leaving their mutual friend to gaze upon Mary's contemplative figure. 

"Come on, Mary Poppins," he eventually called out. Her eyes shot up at him, and he continued after extending his arm. "I'll take yeh for a walk."

Having no stance to protest, Mary consented, linking her arm with his before they continued on their way.

The two were well out of range of the home, moseying under a brilliant azure sky through lush grass fields when Bert finally spoke up.

"Mary, yeh have no idea how sorry I am for everything, for ever gettin' you involved - an' especially for how 'orribly I've had yeh offended. If yeh should never want to speak to me again, I'll understand. Truly, I will. I suppose it really isn't fitting for someone like me to . . . "

Bert's speech faltered. Mary took it upon herself to move from her halted position to sit upon a fallen tree of a copse just a few feet away. She realized then that John must have informed him of everything.

"Bert, I assure you I'm not as hurt as all of that. I'm not even bleeding!"

Something about the way Mary rolled her eyes as she spoke made Bert believe her, though he didn't feel that amends had fully been made.

"I can explain about Mrs. Daffodil," her friend offered in haste, but with a bitter taste settled in her mouth, Mary declined his offer.

"Honestly," she almost spat before swiftly continuing, "explanations mean nothing to me. You should know by now I have little use for them. The most concise of them is worthless - the only acceptable telling of the past is the present. It can't be changed. When it's known, it's often only disregarded, anyway. Be it said or unsaid, the future will still happen. Nor do I keep much stock in titles, Bert. Everyone looks at me and sees something different, and my eyes are capable of the same function. I have always viewed you as the perfect gentleman and the sincerest of friends. A few foul words from someone else's lips can't sway that so easily."

Bert beamed at her and stifled a sigh, wondering as he so often found himself doing in Mary's presence why he ever feared her wrath in the first place. He could only conclude to himself that it was a result of his terrible fear of losing such a wonderful friend.

" I 'ope you haven't expected my opinion of ya to change any, Mary Poppins! Never 'ave I met more a lady in my life!"

"Well, thank you, Bert," she responded lightly as he pulled her once again to her feet. "I must say I try." They smiled at each other for a moment, ignoring the gorgeous scenery around them. Beside them a tiny stream flowed, continuing into a pasture a ways before them which was dotted with a variety of animals. The sun shone as brightly as it had all day, and Mary couldn't help but feel the absence of her previously-felt unpleasantness.

"I'm sure she only said it out of jealousy," Bert reasoned some time later.

"Then we're even if that should be true," she replied simply, and her friend could make no retort.

Feeling the need to bring about an end to the situation at hand, Mary Poppins found herself speaking once again. "It's not as if it was her I came for, after all. The girls seem a bit better and that's all I could ever ask for."

Bert grinned. "Who can't resist a bit o' yer magic?"

But Mary didn't smile at this. Instead she replied, "If every problem could be fixed with a bit of magic, I'd be a much busier woman, Bert."

Further they pressed, neither entirely sure of where they were going, only knowing how delightful it was to be traveling there with a friend and seeing no immediate need to navigate an exact route. And so they kept strolling about as the warm sunbeams painted their faces with smiles, which they broke only in order to comment on the gorgeous scenery.

But soon a detour became necessary as they approached the boundary of the paddock. A stone wall and its narrow, wooden kissing gate impeded their motion. Bert released Mary's arm from its entwinement with his own before hurrying ahead. He opened it and upon reaching the other side, shut it swiftly, making a scowling Mary Poppins come quickly to a halt.

"Come now, Mary Poppins! Certainly such a gentlewoman as yourself abides by tradition!" No sooner had he made his exclamation did Bert realize how foolish he was to ever suggest such a thing. Certain she would find this offensive, his mouth hurried to form words of pardon as he went to open the gate for her. Before he got the chance to fully complete either of these actions, however, he felt Mary's hand rest upon his shoulder. A moment later she had tilted her face up towards his own and kissed him thoughtfully, full on the lips.

Chivalry immediately rushing back into his mind, he opened the gate wide for Mary Poppins, who sauntered through it and expressed her gratitude as if nothing short of an everyday occurrence had happened. For a moment after the gate swung shut again, he only could marvel at her retreating back. Then for the first time did Bert make a powerful admittance to himself. He loved her. The kiss truly had little to do with it other than the fact that it somehow epitomized so many of the traits he cherished in her: her ability to be solemn and casual at the same time, her nondiscriminatory heart, her way of remaining unruffled regarding all matters of true importance. How he wished he could share his feelings so easily with the one he loved, but Bert rejoined her once again and they continued on, just as they had before.

* * *

It was not terribly long after Mary had departed from Dinah, Hannah, and Beatrice that their lives remolded into a state of somewhat normalcy. They had moved with their parents back to the city for good, leaving behind the little estate and so many of its memories - Mary Poppins herself being among those discarded. That was until on one fateful morning, their memories were jogged. 

Mrs. Daffodil, in her usual state of fury, scuttled around to prepare breakfast in the apartment's cramped kitchen, her daughters positioned at the table. Suddenly, a flash of white fluttered at the window behind the stove, causing Rosamund to upset her frying pan with a shriek. The three girls hurriedly congregated as close to the pane as they could to get a better glimpse. There sat for a few moments on the sill an alabaster dove who gazed inquisitively at them before taking flight as quickly as it had come. It was Beatrice who spoke up, her young memory more agile than those of her sisters.

"Mary Poppins was right," she stated simply. The three of them could only smile.

* * *

But in the aftermath of her adventure with the Daffodils, there was one person at least who had not forgotten Mary Poppins. And even though they were so very far away from each other, it had finally dawned on Bert how he could communicate with his dear friend. Once again, he set about writing a note. When he was satisfied with it, he slammed his pen down and hurried out into the night. Ripping it to pieces, he waited for a breeze before offering them to it. In seconds, they were gone. 

That morning, as fate would find her, Mary Poppins was sitting on a cloud, perusing London in a fashion she had long ago grown accustomed to. Her scanning was interrupted, however, when a familiar-looking piece of paper fluttered into her midst. She opened it and read:

_True friends are very hard to find,_

_And I've searched high and low._

_It's the reason I could never stay_

_In the places I would go._

_For in the end it matters not_

_The lands that you have been to._

_The only thing that truly counts_

_Is the one who will go with you._

She simpered as she read it through for a second time. It lightened her heart as only a typical Bert verse could. From beside her, the parrot chuckled.

"What?" She demanded, folding up the note.

"Nothing, Mary Poppins, nothing." He sighed. "Merely that . . . perhaps there's hope for you yet."

* * *

If the parrot had ever said anything feasible, Mary Poppins always hoped that just that statement would have been it. However, with only three days now separating her from a loveless demise, the parrot seemed only less nonsensical than the poem he had commented on. 


	9. Every Second Tuesday

Dear Readers,

I'm finally trying to repay you for putting up with some of my tardiness by getting this up here a little early. Keep in mind it's the late hours of the night, and I have surely made a few booboos with things. I ask you to please pardon me in advance. I will set about making corrections as soon as possible. I have pondered holding off on putting this up for just that reason, but you have all been entirely too good to me for me to keep you waiting. I also know that some of you have wanted to know about this for awhile. And trust me, not all has been revealed yet! Though, I assure this was not rushed - it's been played out in my mind for a very long time.

That being said, I know towards the end, there is potential for many to think things are a little crazy, even ridiculous. I have thought this myself many times, but considering the sources, I have never seen any other way to go about writing it. It had to be. I only hope it doesn't kill things for you. We are so very close to the end of things that it makes me very sad. I never would have gotten to this point was it not for all of you!

So in that spirit, I take my usual moment to thank profusely the wonderful redneckqueen-93, Temple, me again, Steeleafan, literaryfreak, and Gabrielle. Your inspiring, supportive, and in many cases very creative comments have been the ambition behind so much of this. I realize how very lucky I am to have such wonderful reviewers and I thank you so very, very much! Without you, none of this would be at all the same.

And so, I suppose I will leave you, safe in the "present" at last. I do hope that you will enjoy, and that I haven't made too many hideous errors! A thousand thank-yous to you all!

-Margo

* * *

"We're still going, are we, Mary Poppins?" The words drifted to Mary's ears from the far corner of her room, where her umbrella rested. 

"Absolutely yes," she replied, albeit with much less force than she ever had before. Her eyes remained fixed on her reflection in the old mirror before her, where she was almost unable of breaking out of her plaintive trance. But she eventually did so, shoving her cosmetics back into her handbag before picking up the fretful bird by the throat and carrying him away.

Was Mary Poppins more in her befitted state, she would have dealt to her companion a severe chiding. Firstly, she would have seen it fit to berate the bird for daring to speak so freely in the Gettings' residence. Mary had never been fond of the creature prattling on in the households they occupied, and with several people milling about the stories of the home this last house was certainly no exception - even if she would be departing from it shortly, with the umbrella's actions having little outcome on the future. Of course, Mary Poppins would also want to instill into his mind - and perhaps her own, as well - that she would never dream of observing the last second Tuesday of her life without performing the traditional ritual that was synonymous with it. But there was simply no potency left within the heart of the woman to relay any of these fervent messages. Rouge and powder could restore to her face the hues that had long been removed from it. An expertly buttoned coat could shelter her figure from view, which had never been slighter in all of her days. None of these guises, however, could remove the constant burning in her chest, a pain that seemed to be incensed by nothing less than fragments of burning coals that were imbedded fiercely in her heart. None of them were able to replace any of the actual entities Mary Poppins had ever lost, and doubtlessly, they could not instate what things were never possessed to begin with.

And so, her blood tainted with a certain urgency, Mary left the home without a word to anyone. The entire homestead knew very well the only stipulation with which the nanny was hired. She would never have expected any interference with her action, anyway. Intrusion would have required someone in the house to care about her, to view her presence as a necessity, and above all to show her the slightest trace of love. Such feelings Mary Poppins would never find among the Gilberts or their domestics, that much she well knew by then. How she had tried to make their ending different, but the capability was simply not within her grasp. Perhaps years before, when Mary was in her prime, she would have been able to craft a finer outcome for all involved, but not in her current state. She resolved to leave as soon as this one task was finalized, when her concluding destination could be the only trace of a home and a sense of belonging she had left in the world.

It seemed that no matter what little alleyway or street Mary Poppins was commencing from, she was always well aware of the path she must take to reach her objective location. Over the years she would often wonder if this was a product of the curse that dozed in her marrow but reckoned the ability stemmed from her own desires - one of the few ideas she ever lodged in her own mind. Just then, however, Mary and her reluctant companion were progressing in the completely opposite direction. Should the parrot have taken note of this he did not mention it, and this was just as well, for surely the emptied woman had no desire to implement her usual wont of embellishing her motives for him. Within her own heart she knew exactly what she was doing.

Days before, Mary's mind had begun to accept the fact that she was indeed dying. And while the entirety of the situation may not yet have struck her in full, the woman knew that she could not depart without one final look around the city that had never loved her in kind. For all of her life Mary Poppins had contended in the sport the populace had set forth for her. Never did she set a toe over the line of decorous conduct - always ornamented in the most proper attire, complimented only by her perfect manners and courteous hospitality. In the end, however, it seemed as though her contribution to society had made no difference, and the realization that her attempts to appease her peers were made in vain would have pierced her had not a dozen other such ailments already numbed the scanty remains of her core. So much time had been wasted away for nothing. Even as she presently trekked past the familiar staunch and shaded homes, along the wrought iron fences and patches of greenery, it was these things that seemed to pay her more mind than any of the people who shared the sidewalks and brick laid streets with her. This, however, was nothing new or different. Many times over the years had Mary wondered if she was made of glass rather than flesh, spurred on by the feeling of pellucidness that from time to time enraptured her. How cold they all had been - and oblivious, too! Surely not one of them realized that their disinterest was bringing death upon the woman, and - what was possibly worse - none of them would miss her presence when in three days' time she was removed from the face of the earth and garnered beneath it. Of course, thinking such things may have made Mary Poppins seem somewhat shallow, but never were these observations smithed for herself. Rather, she would have readily accepted her death had someone not already paid a most exorbitant amount for her life.

But for as unreal as this may have seemed, the woman continued on her predetermined path without bitterness haunting her. Walking along this way and that, the only command Mary could relay to her head was to remember. Her mind did not fail her.

* * *

It seemed that from around most every corner or through the open windows there peeped the head of a child from the past, not bodily solid but rather well preserved in memory. From these apparitions sprang the story of her life: so much of what she had seen and did, the gestures and occasions that had warmed her heart and gave her hope, and eventually the actions that had fought so valiantly to embitter her soul. How she had exerted herself to defeat them, only for them to ultimately triumph over her in the end. 

Mary Poppins' conscience eventually took her down a well-trodden lane, where a very familiar shop bustled with activity. It stood as picturesque as ever with its sparkling windows and well-groomed path. She stared meaningfully at the lilac bush that grew wild beside the building. It profusely bloomed a luminous shade of amethyst despite the October chill that had assaulted the air. Instinctively, Mary reached out to it, and with her gloved fingers snapped away a branch of the gorgeous flowers with as much force as she could muster. She allowed her eyes to drink in one last languishing glance before she continued on. The sight should have saddened her, but even in her deteriorated state, it was not a part of Mary Poppins' character to subscribe to such a thought. How fortunate she was to have such scrumptious experiences in her lifetime. Despite their outcome, they were more than many ever received - this she knew well. Not a day went by when she did not express her thankfulness for the life that she undeservingly had been granted. It was no one's fault but her own, she told herself, that it was coming to an end.

She continued to visit her past along the streets of London, wherever her aching heart felt inclined to draw her. It was truly a chilling experience, for Mary felt as if she was already a ghost revisiting the shortcomings of a previous life. Everywhere around her life went on while she could feel her own screeching to a halt. Knowing this, she would move along, plucking up what flowers she was able to along the way. They were a calming effect on her raw nerves, the beauty of her memories manifested into something tangible, something she could hold and possess and share solace with - for it would not be very long before they succumbed to the bitter autumn as well. It was just as Mary's head began to spin with the same jadedness that grappled her legs when she found herself sitting on a very familiar stone wall. She had brought herself back to the park. As she glanced around, the woman realized she was in almost the exact same place where she had met up again with what would be her one true friend so many years ago, when all of the aberration had only begun. How he would make her life more bearable, brightening her tarnished spirits when all hope felt lost. Often he would poke good-humored fun at her delightful little tune, but Mary Poppins did not imagine that Bert was ever aware of the fact that he was the only reason she sang of a spoonful of sugar so long after the song had originally been devised. He eased the bitter tonic of life for her, an act that in and of itself was almost as valuable as an "I love you" from the gentleman would have been. She could not fault him for this. He had done more for Mary than any other ever had bothered to, and for that the woman knew that Bert's memory would be the last to dissipate from her heart, for he was the one she loved.

Mary sighed, running a hand atop the grass behind her. Into her palm came a beautiful cluster of mums. She picked these too before rising slowly and treading away, though upon retreating through the gate she stopped dead. Once more Mary turned around. How morbid the park seemed without Herbert Alfred capering about. After all of these years, though, it appeared that he had finally moved on, a thought that made Mary's heart leap. She could only hope that someone would repay him for the kind services he had done for her. How she wished she could settle the debt herself, but it seemed that Mary Poppins could not even leave him with a goodbye. Perhaps it was better this way. The woman's own failing heart could not tell her. She closed her eyes to the actual place but not to the memories. For the first time in days, the truest hint of a smile slipped onto her lips.

"Thank you, Bert," she murmured. With a spin on the heel, she was gone.

* * *

It was only Mary Poppins' enduring determination that allowed her to traipse even further on. She longed to stop and rest, but told herself that in a short span of time she would be getting an eternity of idleness. This was her last chance to fulfill her obligation, and so with purse, umbrella, and the bouquet of assorted flowers in her hand, Mary filed past the endless lanes of buildings, until the horizon gave way to empty land. A blurred span of time later, the woman came upon a stone archway, joined on either sign by more iron fencing. She had reached her destination. Without further thought, her feet began to guide her along the final stretch to the place she desired to visit. 

Even after all of these years, it was exactly as she remembered it firstly, besides from being a bit more developed. Simple blanched crosses along with hedge stones, rounded and square, were decorated with a variety of engravings and epitaphs. They formed a fortified sea, which for the unprepared visitor could prove rather daunting to wade through. But Mary Poppins knew what she was looking for. An eerie silence enveloped the place for the woman was the only one to be found visiting that afternoon. It mattered not to her, for Mary had always believed it to be the best time to come. Every second Monday without fail, the grounds keepers of the cemetery brought the property to a most presentable state. Every second Tuesday, Mary Poppins would bring with her fresh flowers and new lamentations.

There eventually came a time when her knees gave out from beneath her, forcing her onto the moist grass where a simple marker lay flat against the ground. The inscription read:

_Penelope Poppins_

_February 2, 1862 - February_ _12, 1891_

The daughter of the interred ran her fingers over the recession of the carved letters and winced. Releasing the array of flowers from her grasp, she spoke.

"I'm sorry!" Mary Poppins managed in barely a whisper. "I've tried. I truly have. But I've failed, too, and nothing could cause me greater pain. It's not for my own welfare I'm concerned. I should have died all of those years ago and I know it! It's for you I feel the most remorse! I failed you!"

She began to shiver from the combination of the elements acting upon her, and grasped at the cold earth beneath her before continuing on. "I've been given far more than I deserve, I know, and for that I never stop thanking you. You're the one who taught me how to think, and how to feel . . . and how to care, and how to believe!"

Mary took a long breath before beginning, aware that she did not have much energy left at all, certainly not enough to discern thought from speech. For a moment, blankness engulfed her in silence before she began again.

"Every single day I tried my best to be to all of those children exactly what you were to me! And only now do I realize how foolish I was - that such beauty and strength cannot be replicated! If I only realized that sooner, perhaps I would not have failed so miserably. I beg you forgive me, mother! So soon I'll be here, right beside you. Don't shun me as the others have!

I know I deserve no more favors from you. But of everything in this life, I've loved you most of all, and I dare not doubt the love you possessed for me."

A tingling of energy found Mary Poppins, but she knew she could not continue on much longer. "For so very long, I've sought three little words from the world. Only now does my senselessness slap me across the face. They belong to you more than they ever could have to me. You were the one who first taught me what they meant, and so I restore them back to you, the only possession I bequeath to anyone."

Mary sat up and gazed at the marker so severely that she was sure its gray stone reflected in her blue eyes. And from her lips poured the one phrase she had kept so guarded throughout her life, back to their source of origin. No longer was she afraid to say it.

"I love you."

* * *

As far as Mary Poppins was concerned, as she returned to the home of Gilbert Gettings to collect her possessions and make her final farewell - directed for the first and last time to a household whose problems she had not resolved - her life was over. After a few brief moments in the home, she would return once more to her Uncle Albert, where she would remain until her time officially expired. But as soon as Mary opened the front door, her plan was immediately complicated. 

"There she is!" Shrieked the Gettings' dumpy maid, slamming her into the closet door against the wall.

Before the woman could make a move, red-faced Mister Gettings barged into the drawing room. "Mary Poppins!" He fumed. "Just what have you done?"

"What have I done?" She retorted, frightened into defending herself. "I've been out all day. I've no idea what you're accusing me of!"

The man grew all the more fierce, but Mary didn't flinch. "Well, someone's stolen away my son and that compass of his! Left the entire place in shambles! Louise heard the ruckus from the kitchen, but by the time anyone realized what had happened it was too late!"

The woman glowed with more life than she had in quite some time, induced by a state of shock. "And so I'm the culprit?"

"I'll safely bet you're at least associated with whomever has done this! Gilbert's told me of the vagabonds you go associating with - it wouldn't surprise me in the last!"

At this, something within Mary Poppins snapped. True enough, she had endured her fair share of insults through the years. Words could not hurt her. But the man had made the terrible mistake of daring to insult Bert, who the woman knew without a doubt to be more of a gentleman than Gilbert Gettings Senior could ever be. But, not unlike herself in the least, Mary grew more composed in her state of anger than enraged. She sighed almost listlessly, surveying the house beyond the doorway.

"So you're certain they're gone, are you?" The nanny dared to question.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life!"

"How unfortunate," Mary declared. She glanced around at the few pieces of furniture that were overturned and immediately knew no burglary had occurred. The nanny was aware that the only thief was Gilbert, and what a clumsy thief he had turned out to be. "This is absolutely the oldest trick in the book. I thought your son was craftier than this, honestly."

Mister Gettings was absolutely outraged. "Do you dare imply that this was my son's doing?"

Mary looked at the infuriated man before turning her gaze to the closet door she had so rudely been thrust into. "Yes," she replied, gazing intently at the door knob. "I do."

At that moment, the door popped open, and out rolled a bewildered little Gilbert, compass clutched tightly in his left palm. Suddenly, all of the color drained from his father's face.

"Oh, Mary Poppins!" He exclaimed, trying to make amends. "I'm-I'm so sorry! I was just so worried! I didn't mean to insult you-"

"Then it's only unfortunate that you did." She interrupted, and without another word, Mary was ascending the staircase as swiftly as possible. Descending moments later with her carpet bag in tow, the only farewell she received was the sound of the Gilberts carrying on in some sort of argument. She had expected little else.

* * *

Throughout all of this, the parrot had remained entirely too quiet. No one knew this better than Mary Poppins, and when the fellow decided to speak up again, she could not deny that it was expected. 

"There's one family that you may teach more by your departure than by remaining. One of the worst ever, I'd say."

It was not very often that the parrot had ever said anything that could pass for consoling, and so the silence that came afterwards resulted only from Mary's uncertainty of how to respond. The parrot pressed on anyway.

"There are fates worse than death, Mary Poppins." He insisted as they turned down Kirkby Lane.

"And just what would they be?"

"If I were you, I would thank your lucky stars that you should never have to find out." These final words were spoken with a bitterness that even Mary had never heard before.


	10. Good Riddance

Dear Readers,

Well here we are! Chapter Ten already, my how time flies! I should like to thank my wonderful reviewers who have stuck around for so many of these chapters and have brought them to light! Many, many thanks go to all who supported the previous chapter: Sbradley, redneckqueen-93, Temple, Steeleafan, and Gabrielle. Hopefully I didn't depress too many of you, though I do apologize if I did!

I was glad to see that the parrot retained some interest, for he will be causing one final squabble this chapter and I happily admit that he will also be meeting his fate. Hopefully you find this chapter somewhat enjoyable, though I completely understand if you don't. Today's random fact is that long ago, far away, and about twenty revisions since, a part of this chapter was my original idea for a oneshot, which grew into all that came before it and the little that will follow it.

Which brings me to my next topic. I do believe we have about three chapters left, so nothing is a hundred percent resolved yet, I suppose. I know I've been saying that you will find out about certain things and I haven't changed my plans. There are still a few tidbits yet to be revealed.

Continuing my apologies, there are a few little throwbacks to the movie I couldn't help but include, hopefully they'll lighten the mood a little bit. I also must apologize for anyone who is not a particular fan of my poetry tidbits. I suppose that they are my substitutes for songs being as this was based on a musical (haha), but I assure you that you won't have to put up with much more of it.

And I think that's just about it, so without further ado, I shall allow all who wish to read to do so. This chapter is officially the second-longest, I believe. I never realized how long "But They Grew" was until I discovered how short these others are! But anyways, thank you so very, very much! Please enjoy!

-Margo

* * *

Mary Poppins gingerly rang the bell at Uncle Albert's door, which summoned him but a split second later. Exactly how she found herself in his living room she did not know - for so very much seemed to blur together in her mind anymore - but the woman was now very aware of the tight embrace of her loving uncle that stabilized her for a long moment. Nothing was said in the space of most of that time, during which the arched old gentleman and his attenuated niece absorbed from each other the deep breaths and hearty shivers their despondency brought forth. Both were in their distinct classes of agony, which were so complex that tears could not resolve either one's anguish. And so, Uncle Albert eventually tried to express his mind in words.

"I'm sorry," he managed simply, flushed palms still pressing into the felt around Mary's waist.

Mary lifted her chin from her uncle's shoulder before attempting to peer into the orbs perched behind his spectacles, only to discover that she could not.

"Don't say that," she whispered, head retreating slowly from side to side. Mary subconsciously tightened her grip on the elderly man's arms. She had both anticipated and dreaded this moment for a very long time and had not the cowardice to allow it to elude her.

"Saying you're sorry admits guilt," Mary Poppins explained gently, "of which you have none. I wish to apologize to you, Uncle Albert - for all of the inconveniences I've made you endure in vain, for all of the delight I've stolen from your life and devoured into my own insatiable and pathetic soul!"

Once again, the young woman's head collapsed onto the form of Uncle Albert, her throat balanced uncomfortably on his shoulder blade, making her breaths all the more laborious. His fingertips glided over the back of her neck in response, harnessing his remarkable power of consolation into her form.

"There is no way you took anything from me of greater value than what you've given me." He insisted.

But Mary's reply was ready, and she freely snapped it at her uncle with greater resonance than she had ever dared to address him with before. She once again tried to gaze into his eyes and, seeing nothing but concern and remorse, was infuriated even further into speech.

"What about your little sister?" Mary interrogated, the thoughts of her mother that came flooding to memory causing her to wince at the mention. "How precious you were to her! And she to you! And I took her from you so swiftly, leaving not a trace of her! It seems impossible that you could ever forgive me for such a thing, yet alone love me as no one else has even seen fit. And now I've returned here to die, wronging you twice."

Uncle Albert mustered Mary Poppins into an embrace that seemed beyond his strength. "It isn't true," he contended fiercely. "Every time I look at you I see Penelope, and I wish that it was her here to look instead of me - that much I won't deny. But I also know that she would have never wanted time to play out any differently than it had so long as she had the power to control it - save of course what your father has caused."

He paused briefly to maintain his composure. "She would despise that as much as I do, Mary, but she would never hold it against you. You've tried harder than most will ever exert themselves to, and you've been paid not nearly as handsomely as you should have been in return. You can never offend me as long as you inspire me so, and I cannot long for your mother's presence when her spirit is so boldly embodied by you. Fate has rewarded neither of you fairly for your courage, and I myself cannot inflict further insult on you with a sound conscience."

Mary continued to savor Uncle Albert's embrace for a time after he had finished speaking, but no words of her own could pose a competent reply. His explanation had made her position between his arms all the more comfortable, and now with everything of meaning declared as properly as she could ever hope, Mary Poppins was at last prepared to accept her deserved fate.

* * *

As far as Mary was concerned, the only task left for her to undertake was the transformation from mortal to ghost. Listlessly, she had retired to the room that had held her occupancy as a child, casting off her coat and allowing her hair to slip out of its rigid bun. For a time, Mary merely sat on the tiny mattress, her stocking feet drawing imaginary circles on the wooden floor as her vacant mind observed from above. Now and again, without her consent, a memory would drift into her head, and once it had grown disgusted with her idleness would again retreat into the past. Incapable of complex thought as she might have been, the immersed woman was only glad her Uncle Albert had not remained in her presence to witness so sorry a view. As it stood, Mary Poppins would not permit him to continue lamenting over her and insisted that he return his attention to whatever her arrival had interrupted him from. Without much protest he agreed, though his niece imagined that this was due more to his own emotions than to hers.

This thought had not fixated itself in Mary's mind for long before giving way to a new enterprise, though truly this replacing action was more of a function than a thought. She picked up her umbrella from beside the headboard of the bed in fulfillment of her strange and renewed desire to keep it near to her. Down the hall she wandered absently before turning into the first open doorway on her left, the entrance to the sitting room.

The oaken room had hardly changed at all from the way Mary Poppins first recalled it in her memory, and with the amount of commotion that had been the catalyst of change outside the home's walls, it was something that the woman could greatly appreciate. Inattentively, Mary sat herself on one of the aged table's pair of seats, leaning the head of the bird against the wall. Her elbow planted lazily on the tabletop, the woman eased her chin onto her fist, the fingers of the opposite hand running over the surface as she gazed into the dark fireplace before her.

"Where it did begin so does it end," Mary commented offhandedly, her acquaintanceship with Bert being the most recent topic brewing on her mind.

From beside her, most unexpectedly, the parrot scoffed in an astonished fashion. "My, how you've changed, Mary Poppins! I should hardly recognize you from the woman I once knew."

She did not turn to look at him as she dreamily replied, "I am the person I've always been."

"No, you aren't," he argued. "Had your person always been devised so completely of such tenderness you would have died out long ago. But somehow, it seems that at the same time, you are now devoid of being affected by any predilection at all. A very terrible perplexity, indeed."

"What are you trying to say?" Mary Poppins asked, gaining genuine interest in the matter.

The bird inclined himself to elaborate. "I mean that should you truly value this friendship you lament over so, you would not see it crash to such an ending."

For a brief moment, her advisor's accusation made her skin prickle, but a feasible retort soothed the woman. "There's hardly anything I can do about it, really. And perhaps the whole notion of a friendship is only an illusion. One could only wonder if he'll even note my absence once I'm gone."

"How unmindful you've grown, too! Should you truly think that little of your only friend, your fate is entirely deserved!"

One of the last fibers within Mary Poppins that had yet to break did so, finally giving way to the irritableness that often accompanied one's pain and suffering. When greater strength sustained her, the woman had been able to swallow her agitation, but as had so many others, this trait vanished. No longer could she appease the parrot. Something about his speech bothered her. It was not so much his crudeness but rather his identification of Bert as Mary's friend. To the woman, his knowledgeable judgement could be considered truth, evoking from within her a terrible anger. Of course the bird might have been seizing one of his final opportunities to manipulate her as well, but this thought did not anger Mary Poppins more than the idea of having been locked in an arid friendship did.

"Whoever said he was my friend?" She seethed to spite herself, still searching for her proof.

"He did. And you've insisted on toting around the evidence for years - those simple little letters and all. Should you doubt it still, you might make better use of your time by reviewing them than by wallowing in your pretentious heartache. They're worth more than you've ever taken for granted."

While he may have appeared to undergo a change of heart, to himself the umbrella was only fulfilling his duties. The bird had been placed in the retention of Mary Poppins for the purpose of aiding her through her journeys. For the majority of the years they had spent together, he often refrained from sharing much vocal subsidy. This was only because he felt a woman of her capabilities did not need to be led by the hand through life. The bird had bided his time - though not very silently - until his help was truly needed. Perhaps it would be thought that just then was too late to act, that it was too late to save her life. While that may have been true, there was time enough left to secure what she had held dear during her existence if Mary would only listen to what the bird had to say. This turned out to be an unnecessary concern, for a moment later he was once again lifted into the air and carried away. For whatever reason indeed betided her, Mary heeded the bird's suggestion. Someday, she would perhaps be thankful for his intrusions.

Back into her room she trudged, falling lightly upon the bed before fishing for her carpet bag. Hoisting it as gracefully on top of the mattress as was possible, she wasted no time in foraging for what she desired and soon attained it. Mary placed upon her lap a bundle of old and disheveled papers which held all of the various messages she had received en route over the years. Several sheets from the top was the first poem Bert had ever sent her, the sight of which caused all of her venomous feelings toward him to drain from her heart. For a time she sat smiling at it.

Eventually, Mary Poppins admitted, "He deserves better than this. He deserves a goodbye. Of course it won't be much, just another letter in return, but I think that will suffice."

The parrot remained silent as his keeper summoned fountain pen and paper and began to write. She was not far into her task when a fit of rage engulfed her, however, causing her to throw the materials mercilessly down onto the bed.

"This won't do!" Mary Poppins raved. "I've been waiting all of these years for him to voice his feelings. If he won't do it, then I may as well take it upon myself. Now it can't affect anything. It's too late for me. And if my only alternative is sitting here waiting for death, then I may as well go make an attempt to find him!"

With that, the woman channeled her renewed burst of energy into dressing herself appropriately to venture outside. As she bustled about the room, the parrot spoke again.

"Now there is the woman I remember."

* * *

Upon descending the staircase, Mary flitted into the dining room in search of Uncle Albert. She found him at the table, lost among a mound of his own papers. The entrance having startled him, he glanced up from his work to see his niece, whose appearance had been completely transformed from the last time he laid eyes upon her. Now her body was garnished in a brilliant purple, her black straw hat perched upon her tidy hair and her hands - gloved in black - were clasped around her umbrella and handbag. It was almost as if her salubriousness had been restored.

"I'm going out for a bit, Uncle Albert," her crimson lips proclaimed, "I will not be gone long."

"Where are you going?" He ventured, rising in concern.

The young woman swallowed deeply. Though Mary was aware of the good friendship between her uncle and Bert, she had never elaborated to anyone her own feelings for the man. Despite her levelheadedness and the urgency of the situation, some of the color was returned to her cheeks by the thought of her confession.

"I'm going to find Bert - if I can. We were good friends, you know - he is still dear to my heart, and that's the truth. For as wonderfully as he has treated me over the years, I cannot depart from him without an explanation. I plan on telling him everything, namely that I love him."

Mary Poppins blinked as a look of vanquishment sprang onto her uncle's face. She could not interpret this until he spoke in turn.

"But, Mary," he managed, largely at a loss for words, "if you explain everything, and - and he says that-"

The elderly gentleman was interrupted by a brief note of laughter from his niece.

"Oh, Uncle Albert, it's a little late to expect that, no? I have barely more than a couple of days left in this world. I don't even know where Bert is anymore, but I have to try to speak with him. I've attempted to write him and it just isn't the same. May this action be my first success or my last failure."

In the end he came to understand, and bade Mary farewell with an embrace of encouragement.

But upon exiting the front door Mary Poppins realized just what she was contending against.

"I don't even know where to begin," she admitted to the air, fully contemplating Bert's overly mercurial movement as of late.

The parrot came to her aid. "You certainly did earlier, Mary Poppins. I clearly recall you saying it, though you were rather disillusioned at the time. 'Where it did begin, so does it end . . . '"

She gazed at the jade bird, her mind bewildered into racing. "He certainly wasn't in the sitting room!"

"No, no he wasn't," her advisor replied cooly.

A moment longer the woman thought before an impossible idea came to mind. "The park? But I was there - just a bit earlier, really. He wasn't there!"

"Wasn't he? You were in such a befuddled state it was a miracle you could even see where you were going."

As uncertain of herself as ever, Mary rushed in the direction the parrot had inadvertently suggested. All the while that her feet clicked against the pavement, spurred on by desire, she couldn't help but wonder if she would be too late, or if perhaps Bert had never truly been there at all. As it chanced, when the woman rushed into the gates of the park, she had nearly missed the sight of her dear friend, idling in the shade of an oak tree rooted into the grassy expanse of the park. Most luckily, he had seen her whizzing by this time and somehow managed to lock his gaze with her own. For a moment, Mary Poppins stopped dead, wondering if what she was seeing was an illusion. But it wasn't. Something other than the winds had brought her back to Herbert Alfred, and as her heart began to beat more rapidly than it ever had before, she need not have doubted what that force was.

Her mind had busied itself formulating the very phrases she would use to enlighten Bert, but as she peered into his smiling eyes, Mary became incapable of forming more than one exasperated word.

"Bert!"

"Mary Poppins!" He exclaimed, rising from beneath the tree's branches. He pushed away a leather bound book the woman had not noticed, filled with his scribbles. "Just the lady on my mind! Sit down, Mary, if ya'd please. I'd like to draw yer portrait!"

It broke Mary's heart to observe his cheerfulness, which set the man a world apart from herself. Part of her cursed the authority that coerced her to destroy such a beautiful scene. She could not bring herself to deny him, however, and so allowed Bert to sit her down across from him in the position he had previously occupied.

"Oh, Bert!" She sighed, smiling. "Silhouette portraits, chalk drawings, pencil sketches! How do I get mixed up in all of your artwork?"

"Well, yer me regular muse, yeh are! Part of a project o' mine I've been working on, actually - a story. An' every good story kin use an illustration, eh? But speaking of which, no litl'uns with yeh today?"

Despite his enthusiasm, Bert was making it relatively easy for Mary to inform him of all she wished, but the task was much harder than she ever imagined. No matter, she would give it her best attempt.

"Oh, no. My attention has . . . been diverted elsewhere, lately."

The woman had just worked up the courage to embark upon her tale when the artist began his own, forcing her to swallow her impatient thoughts for a few moments longer.

"I understand what ya mean," Bert assured her. "That's sort of thanks to you, too."

"To me?" Mary Poppins questioned, growing all the more confused by the man's conversation points.

"Ce'tainly! You did, after all, formally acquaint me with the Banks family. Well, as I'm sure yeh kin imagine, Mister and Misses Banks 'ave no use for nannies anymore - but they've recruited 'emselves a governess. A contrary thing she is, ol' Miss Persimmon, but the Banks children are fond of the 'drawing master' their parents 'ave brought in a couple of times a week."

Mary was informed of his identity by the large wink Bert gave in signal, hands still occupied by his rapidly darting pencil.

"You?" She inquired smiling.

"Yes, if yeh kin believe that. And naturally, Mister Banks has spread the word around, an' now a few families 'ave me come teach their children. It's a bit of a change, but I do enjoy it."

Mary's eyes readjusted from the man's tilted sketchbook to his face. "How wonderful, Bert! And here I am thinking that you're angry with me and that's why I haven't seen very much of you!"

"Angry with you? Never! I'm sorry, Mary Poppins, I thought you would 'ave figured out that an aging chap like me just can't keep a hold on 'is youthful vigor forever!"

Her eyes brightened at this, and her heart's relief was replaced simultaneously with another leaded feeling. "Oh, I did assume something along the lines, but Bert! Sometimes you just have to say things!"

At this outburst of exasperation, Bert's gaze intensified a bit on Mary, his drawing hand slowed its bold flourishes. "Yes," he agreed apologetically, "yer quite right."

This increased attention caused the woman's nerve to retreat once again from fulfilling her purpose. Fearing she had given the incorrect impression of being angry with him, Mary tried once again to resume the conversation. Their last chat would not be muddled if she could help it.

"You're getting on all right, then? And the Banks children, too?"

"Oh, of course," Bert replied, his glance at Mary softening considerably as he resumed speaking. "'Ey miss yah somethin' terrible, but they've still been wonderful for their parents."

The nanny sighed, pushed deep into thought with his words. "What is the most important duty of them all? One's duty toward one's parents."

Here she closed her eyes, now prepared to say what her affections obliged her to tell in order to inform Bert of her quandary.

"Bert, I-" She began upon opening her eyes. But she noticed that Bert had diverted his attention elsewhere, too, and observed him as he gazed most intensely at his drawing. "What's wrong?" She questioned.

He gazed up and exhaled. "It's finished, Mary Poppins."

"Do let me see it," she pleaded, feeling it proper to do so.

"If you wish, but I don't think you'll like it." Uncertain of what he meant, Mary averted her sight to the old book, which Bert slowly turned around for her to behold. She gazed at it for a moment before gasping for breath.

There on the piece of yellow paper was not Mary's likeness at all, but rather a large and shaded heart. Inside was nothing more than the words: I love you.

"And just what is this about?" Mary Poppins interrogated, certain that she had to be mistaken in her unstable frame of mind.

"I didn't mean to do it, Mary," he insisted, "I'm sorry if-" he broke off his sentence abruptly before starting anew, much more empowered.

"Some things you just have to say, Mary Poppins!" Bert tried to examine her face, but could not identify the expression it bore. But there was no going back then. "I love you."

There was no time for either to say anything more, for just after Bert had completed his sentence, a blaring and jostling rumble emitted from the near vicinity. At first consideration, Mary believed the noise to have been the result of Admiral Boom's timekeeping, but glancing at the skyline before her she noticed a streak of green speeding up and away.

More perplexed than she had been all day, Mary Poppins looked to her umbrella, only to notice a startling difference. The parrot head was gone, and in its place was a simple, curved wooden handle onto which was attached a note. Grabbing at it swiftly, she unfolded it and read:

_Now that we are both free to fly,_

_You with your wings and me with mine_,

_I've gone to tell your mum the news_

_That her little girl has paid her dues._

_Sincerely,_

_The Parrot_

"Oh, that bird! Why didn't I recognize him?" Mary nearly shrieked in revelation as she jumped up. Bert was quick to join her, frightfully unaware of what was going on anymore. The woman he loved soon found him in his state of confusion and addressed him once again.

"Oh, Bert, forgive me for what I'm about to do - but you certainly deserve this!"

Disregarding the rules and regulations society had set for her, Mary gingerly wrapped her arms about the man's neck before proceeding to kiss him high on his warm cheekbone. At that moment, he was the only one that existed.

"Apology accepted!" Bert declared as she dove once again into her note. She seemed to shine with a new and brilliant radiance which was transmitting onto him.

"Oh, the parrot! I should have known! _I should have known!_" A chorus of Mary's deep, sweet laughter erupted from her throat. The sound was genially received by Bert's ears, but it did not satisfy him as the sound of her voice would have.

"Mary, I know you aren't very fond of it, but - would you mind perhaps explaining what just happened?"

Her brilliant, pearly teeth were bared in a smile at this. "Oh, Bert! I want to tell you everything, absolutely everything! But right here just doesn't seem a suitable place. I'm tired of being kept under a looking glass!"

"I understand," he assured her. "Perhaps a nice spot on the rooftops would be better."

"Much," she agreed. "Will you meet me there? Same as last time? There's just one quick thing I must do first."

Bert considered her plea worriedly, grabbing at her wrists. "You will come, won't you? You aren't going away again?"

"No," she insisted. "I'm not." And Bert could not help but trust her completely.

* * *

Uncle Albert was quite shocked to witness Mary bursting into the house, enwrapped with such an astonishing amount of glee.

"Did you tell him, my dear?" He inquired, perusing her alight figure and stopping at her smile.

"No," Mary Poppins replied. "But he told me."


	11. Penned and Priced

Dear Readers,

Good Morning! I don't have a lot of time to put this up but nonetheless I am going to take a few moments to say everything my heart desires because this is the final chapter! Part of me did not want this story to end on Chapter 13 (haha) and upon further consideration, the rest of the story fit nicely into one chapter, and so it is. I will perhaps tack an "Afterword" chapter up here if I am called upon to explain...things. That's all I'll say. If you know the line in the movie that Mary's story is based off of, by the way, I give you virtual cookies.

As this is the last chapter, at the risk of sounding sappy I'd like to thank a whole lot of people. Firstly, I can't help but thank with everything in me the people who brought the book by P.L. Travers and Walt Disney's movie to life, without which none of us would have such a fantastic piece as Mary Poppins to cherish. I'd also like to thank absolutely everyone who has taken the time to read, review, favorite, alert, and support this story as zealously as you have. I appreciate it more than you will ever know and only hope that you can enjoy this story upon its completion. All of my writing has been entirely for you! More detailed thanks also are distributed to Toots McGonagall, Temple, Gabrielle, Steeleafan, redneckqueen-93, Sbradley, literaryfreak, and Tmyres77 for their support of the tenth chapter. You guys have all been so incredibly kind to me, far more than I deserve! Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart thank you!

And I think that's the end of my corny insanity. I'm probably forgetting something, and if I am I do apologize. Until I realize just what that is, please read and enjoy!

Always,

Margo

* * *

As Bert continued to linger upon the ridge of a most familiar roof, accompanied only by the breeze of a maturing autumn afternoon, he wondered if Mary Poppins would perhaps never appear. The man was simultaneously aware that his confidante, though extraordinary as she seemed, was by no stretch of the imagination a deluder. The only possibility that remained then was that Bert's meeting with Mary had never occurred. How unwilling he was to admit that this was true! Back in his tired sketchbook, his declaration to Mary was still enclosed within the very same page he had observed her gaze fall upon. Most convincing of all of the evidence, however, was the fact that if Herbert closed his eyes, the sainted lips of the very woman were contoured to his cheek, not to be removed until the chill of the air whipped against his face to scornfully remind him of her absence. Bert in truth had invested all of his belief in the fact that Mary Poppins would not neglect him. She would come, and in the meantime he would dream. 

And as if she had been summoned by the very zeal of his heart, Mary in her violet radiance appeared to fulfill her promise. Engaging her empty hands to climb the slant of the roof on which Bert sat, she perched herself contentedly beside him. Having approached from behind him, Bert turned his attention in Mary's direction only in time to behold her settling in her seat engulfed in her usual air of properness. Pins and needles began to prick at his heart, and as the radiance of the woman's eyes hovered over his complexion, Bert's chain of thought was destroyed.

"You didn't fly," he recovered, examining her expended form.

Mary glanced down to where her umbrella would have rested before responding. "No. Even if the bird had not flown off, I don't think I could have anyway."

"Y've doubted yourself." Bert inferred, despondent for the woman. He knew her philosophy quite well by then.

Mary Poppins attempted to chuckle, though no sound accompanied the action. "About so very many things."

She turned her body more toward Bert, until her skirts brushed against his knees and gravity threatened to remove her from her seating . In an attempt to stabilize her, Bert planted one of his own palms on the opposite side of Mary, the new position of his head allowing barely a sliver of golden light to separate it from the woman's.

"I can't even find words to speak with," she admitted.

"Mary," Bert insisted, retreating away from her, "yeh don't have to say anythin' a'tol if you don't want to."

"Oh, but that simply isn't the case! There is so very much I want to share with you, it's just a matter of how to go about it, for you see, it's a rather complicated story. And seeing as how it's over, it is indeed a story - and its ending makes a very tempting beginning. But I do believe I'll start from the origin - that is, assuming you want to hear it at all."

Bert returned to his station closer to Mary, "I assure you, I do." And that was all of the convincing that Mary Poppins needed. She exhaled before beginning her tale.

"You're the artist, Bert, but allow me to paint you a picture. On Blue Shutters Lane, not so very far from here, there was a beautiful, inviting home. Up a little flight of steps was an archway leading to the front door, adjacent to which was a quaint picture window. Its rooms filled three stories and from top to bottom it was painted the same color as its fabled shutters. Over the years, it served Mister and Misses Roger Poppins and their daughter Mary quite well."

The narrator paused for a moment, though her audience remained attentive as she continued to stare into the space before her. Deciding how she wished to proceed, Mary Poppins resumed her tale.

"But you see, this picture did not last forever. Exactly what led to its destruction, even I do not know. But what I can relate to you is that in the early hours of February twelfth, eighteen ninety-one, ten-year-old Mary was awakened by her mother in the midst of a horrendous inferno. She helped me to escape, but as a result was left the victim of the flames. By the time the sun rose, the house was reduced to nothing, and my mother had been taken with it.

"With nowhere else to go, my father and I arrived at Uncle Albert's house, though his nerve was waning with each passing day without my mother's presence. He could no longer tolerate me, either, being as my safety was what caused my mother's death. In the end, he would leave Uncle Albert's home without me, but not before he affixed a curse against my young life. I didn't fully comprehend it then, but by the time I had matured I came to understand its terms. Well, you see, my mother loved me very, very much - as is evident in her death. But once she was gone, my father questioned if I had truly deserved it. Without my knowledge, he somehow conjured up a spell that would decide if I deserved to live. He gave me all of my peculiar abilities to enhance my character, and sentenced me to die at the same age as my mother if they and my true character could not be loved by anyone. The conditions were quite simple. I could not provoke affection in the slightest way. No falseness of character would free me either. All I needed was the sincere profession of 'I love you,' by anyone, and I would be able to live my life without restriction. After I was informed of this, my father left me in the care of Uncle Albert. I never saw him again. To this day, I don't know if he is alive or dead. Uncle Albert does not seem willing to inform me, though I can't say I feel particularly deprived. He told me all he felt necessary."

She continued on without obstacles, Bert never daring to interrupt her. "By the time I had matured, my ears were still nearly deaf to those three words. Shortly after the first time I met you, despite Uncle Albert's doubtfulness, I took my umbrella and my carpet bag and began my life as a nanny. I myself knew exactly what my young life had lacked, and I wanted to see that no other child suffer from the same type of poverty if I could have prevented it. Youth is too precious a commodity to waste on adversity, and so it was my only wish to solve as many problems as my being would permit. I tried, and though some worriment was greater than others, I came to triumph over nearly all of my pursuits. Of course, no one had expressed their love for me, though for a very long time it did not matter. I was not set to die until I was twenty-nine years and ten days old. Until then, I had places to go and children to help. And so I continued. You know well the details of my adventures as you were part of so many of them. It was with my last charge some unfamiliarity will lie.

"For how young he was, the boy was by far one of the most tumultuous children I ever tried to help. You witnessed him for yourself. But, in brevity, he was the one I could not help. Upon leaving his home, I accepted my fate. I no longer believed myself able to continue on and lost all hope."

Mary Poppins took a deep breath before finishing her speech. She faced Bert once again, compelled by what she wanted to say.

"Today, I turned twenty-nine years and eight days old. There was neither time nor ambition for me left. I was convinced that I was going to pass away soon. I thought of you, Bert, and I thought of the most beautiful friendship I had with you. I could not leave you in the dark no matter what. In the end, I resolved to find you. I wanted to tell you this entire story. I wanted to thank you. Above all, I wanted to tell you that I loved you. The resulting irony you are already aware of. You ended up breaking me free of my hideous curse, which with my own person has for years kept the world too frightened of me to love me."

The feelings swimming around the heart and mind of Bert could not be expressed in words easily, but the man also knew that at this moment, his chivalry was doing the woebegone soul of Mary Poppins no good at all. Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his free arm reaching over her waist to grasp her elbow.

"Oh, I 'aven't been afraid o' you in a very long time, Mary Poppins," Bert assured her. "Though I have had a great deal of respect for you."

"I'd like to think I'm still respectable," she replied grasping the arm before her middle tightly with both hands as she did so, not wanting Bert to mistake the comment.

"But am I?" She asked, suddenly alert. "You know the truth now. I'm not some sort of fairy or witch. At the heart I am just like anyone else. Was it only my magical side that made me appealing? Can I be the same person without it?" Mary fiercely searched his face for the answer.

"I must say," he admitted, "that it was yer magic that I fell in love with." Mary started with her mouth agape.

"Now, now," Bert becalmed, drawing her even closer to himself before she could fully respond. "I'm not talking about what you think I am. The flyin' an' all is very wonderful, Mary Poppins, but I suspect that deep inside yer 'eart is an even stronger sort of magic that no one's ever 'ad to put there an' that can't be taken away. The powers 'at come from it are what really make children smile and an ol' chimney sweep like me truly lucky. To me it makes you absolutely perfect. That's the magic I fell in love with, Mary."

With no further preamble, the tilted heads of Bert and Mary drew as close to each other as they possibly could, their lips becoming the absorber of further motion. For a long moment, neither wished to unlock themselves from the arrangement, until at long last the friction that connected them dissipated as swiftly as it had come.

"After all of this time..." Mary mused, overtaken with this very new feeling. "I'm so sorry I never said anything earlier, Bert. I couldn't for fear that I'd destroy the sentiment forever. You do understand, don't you?"

"Perfectly, Mary." He insisted. "I always took yeh for the lady 'at couldn't be grounded." Something in the way he made his statement caused Mary to think that he still held the opinion.

"Perhaps I can't be," she tried responding to his subliminal message, "but that doesn't mean I didn't long for someone to proceed with me."

Bert brushed off the situation by asking, "What about the bird, Mary? How did he fit into things?"

"Oh, him," she laughed, responding reluctantly. "I myself just found that out, though I should have figured it out long ago. My mother used to keep a pet parrot, and as Uncle Albert tells me, he was the one who first detected the fire and alerted my mother with his squawking. Birds are so very good at such things. I always assumed he died in the flames, but apparently his assistantship had only just begun. Now he's free again."

The smiles that resulted from this initiated a long period of silence between both of them, during which the two sat enjoying the nearness of each other. Mary Poppins hardly minded the quietness, long having yearned for the company of Bert. Her only regret was that it did not last longer, for as the sun melted into the horizon, her beloved was compelled to speak again.

"No gentleman will allow 'imself to keep his lady out too late. I s'pose we'd better get going. May I escort you 'ome?"

"Indeed you may," Mary accepted, and hand in hand they journeyed back to the world below, slowly making their way to Kirkby Lane.

* * *

Upon reaching Uncle Albert's house night enveloped the surroundings. All the same, Mary Poppins beckoned Bert inside, where the two met with the master of the house. 

"Bert!" Uncle Albert explained. "How wonderful to see you again!"

"And to see you, Uncle Albert," Bert exchanged during a hardy handshake. "I just wanted to see yer Mary home safe an' sound."

The elder gentleman smiled all the wider. "For which I'm ever appreciative."

Mary couldn't help but adore the scene before her. All the same, a rather chaotic day had exhausted her, leaving her unable to partake in much more of the excitement. "For as absolutely elated as I am," she elaborated after a time of chatter, "I fear that I simply must retire for the evening, if you would please excuse me."

"Of course, my dear," Uncle Albert assured her.

Before she retreated, however, Mary once again approached Bert, locking him in a ravenous embrace, which he returned in a much gentler version.

"Thank you," she murmured into his ear. She could not allow herself to leave his presence before completing this action, for they were before all the best of friends.

"My pleasure," Bert insisted, allowing her to make her exit. A moment after she had gone, he still remained watching the path she had taken before Uncle Albert's voice broke him from her reverie.

"Come sit down, Bert, we'll have a talk." The younger gentleman agreed and the two sat themselves in the armchairs adjacent to the glowing fireplace.

"I suppose Mary told you her story," her uncle contemplated.

"Yes she did, sir. An' I 'ave to give her more credit than I ever did. An absolutely 'orrible thing, that whole hex ordeal. Do pardon me, sir, but I 'ave to 'ope that the man who did that to her will get everything he deserves."

Uncle Albert sighed. "I hope so too, Bert. Did she tell you who that man is?"

"Her very father!" He replied, still disbelieving such a thing.

"No," the older man negated. "Not even Mary knows. I suppose you won't be very fond of me anymore, but I must tell you that it was me who put Mary under her curse."

Bert's mouth opened wide with shock. "You?"

"I'm afraid so," came the response. Uncle Albert grew all the more upset. "I really had no choice in the matter. After what happened, Mary's father lost his sense. He wanted her dead and nothing less. It took some convincing, but eventually he settled for my spell, for he could never do it himself. But Bert, all I've ever wanted for her is to be happy! I never thought she'd get it, but I couldn't be more elated that you were the one to free her. I guess all of those ruses to bring you two here worked over the years."

They both laughed at this as Uncle Albert rose, walking over to Bert's chair and placing a hand on his shoulder. "I just want you to know, Bert, that you have my sanction in whatever you plan. I know you have Mary's interests at heart."

Bert rose and shook Uncle Albert's hand once again, though truly he was as impassive to the subject as he was before. "Thank you, Uncle Albert. I certainly appreciate it." The two shared a few words of parting before Bert took leave of the house. It broke his heart to know that in a few short hours, he would return.

* * *

The light of the moon flooded into the room before him, provoking Herbert Alfred to open the glass shutters even further and allow himself in. Slowly and quietly, he stepped from the eave to the wooden floor on the other side. One quick glance around the inky quarters told him that he was in the right location, though Bert had hardly expected otherwise. Opposite him was a little bed dressed in alabaster, upon which its serene sleeper breathed rhythmically. 

A nagging in the back of the man's mind told him that he should not have been there, but it was an action that could not be helped. A large part of Bert feared that through some cruelty of a lie, Mary Poppins would die despite his actions, and could not rest until he made sure the night had not stolen her away. But there she laid, the happiness of a dream painted upon her face which was framed in her long, auburn locks. He crept closer yet, unable to resist the impulse of tucking one such strand of hair behind the woman's ear.

Bert's heart leapt at the very touch of her skin, and drinking in her image only accelerated its beats. Her beauty was one that he would never find again, the thought of which lashed his spirits. If only this terrible deed did not have to be done, but Bert knew that it was impossible for him to avoid it.

Stepping away from the bed, he fished inside of his pocket for a piece of folded paper before reluctantly placing it upon her pillow, doting on it to lie flat and still. Weakness caused the man to steal another glance at the woman he loved, and though he fought bitterly to restrain himself, Bert leaned close to Mary's face, placing a most passionate kiss upon her lips.

Much to his relief, the woman did not stir. Surely, she would awake in the morning and wonder if the action had been a dream. Mary might never realize that Bert was truly there, inhaling her sweet fragrance and contemplating her slumberous face. In this way, the man's kiss was a returned favor, the value of its originating deed having been undeniable to Bert. How many times in the future would he close his own eyes and dream of her, but he wondered if Mary would ever do the same regarding him. Her presence very much on his mind already, he escaped from the room the way he came, the darkness being the only one who could ever truly verify his presence.

* * *

The next morning, when Uncle Albert entered Mary's room to awaken her, he was met with a scene more terrifying than any he had ever experienced in his life. There at the foot of her bed was his niece, in a state he had never imagined her being capable of achieving. From her eyes poured an endless stream of tears, though they did not seem to be produced from weakness or sorrow. They more resembled the result of the mind's inability to procure further thought or contemplation, and having only its incomprehension to offer. 

"Mary! Mary, what's wrong?" Uncle Albert inquired, hurrying to her side. One of her hands was clenched in a fist, the other was wrapped tightly about her bedpost.

"It's – Bert!" She managed with some difficulty. After further questioning on her uncle's part, Mary opened up her fist, dropping into his possession the crumpled and smeared mass that was a note. As he unfolded the paper, his niece lowered her head and sobbed all the harder.

Difficult though it was, Uncle Albert read the note:

_Know that I have always cared, _

_That my heart remains with you. _

_But even after all you've taught me _

_I've a message I must share,_

_  
A lesson that you'll understand._

_Now it's me who cannot stay._

_  
It is because love does its duty_

_Before it fades away. _


	12. Margo's Afterword

Dear Readers,

As I stated a bit earlier, should it be desired, I would post a bit of an explanation regarding this story. I firstly, of course, express my gratitude to all of those loyal readers who have so very promptly shared their feelings with me regarding the ending of the story. I appreciate all of your concerns so very much, and as a result I should be more than happy to address for you the questions that seem to repeatedly appear.

I must start off by saying that, in my mind's original version of this story, an ending was envisioned much like the one so many of you wanted to see. As some of you may recall, several weeks ago in a flurry of my usual chatter, I expressed that I had been inspired to remodel the ending to something different and thus set about doing so.

As for a reason for the change of heart, I assure you that it was by no means done to upset or surprise any of the interested readers. An observation that I had read long ago amidst some bit of Mary Poppins talk was suddenly recalled in my mind, and that idea was that there was no more tragic pairing than Mary and Bert. For as much as I wanted to post the ending originally devised, I found myself faced with the predicament that I could not. It is true that Mary Poppins' history had been revealed, but what of Bert's? For truly, while I dreamed up this entire tale, it was very much a present thought that the only character more mysterious than Mary herself was her chimney sweep friend. Surely a coupling could not solidly be formed while so great a mystery remained unanswered, and though part of me strongly disliked the idea, I decided that these two starcrossed lovers would have to wait just a bit longer. I must say here, however, that Bert (in my mind) would never leave so suddenly without a reason he deemed very good.

And so, parallel to my above thought, I must reveal that if an interest still be present, I shall try to create the second half of this quirky tale of mine. For several weeks, since my new ending was decided upon, I have been dreaming up the nature of such a sequel. As my mind tends to work, some of the final ideas for the supposed story have been sketched, though the plot seems to be quite a complexity in and of itself. While I should not wish to start a story until it is all (nearly) solidly formulated, I do insist that the last people I should ever want to disappoint are the readers who have stuck by me through all of the disappointing curves I have thrown you. And so, should you be interested, I will try to continue on in as timely a fashion as possible, and perhaps a better ending will be reached for both Mary and Bert.

All in all, I should like to take this opportunity yet again to thank absolutely everyone who has stuck by this story through my bloopers and goofs, and who has been so amazingly supportive and kind. I know I do not deserve it, and I should hate to do you wrong! My endless gratitude!

Always,

Margo Duncan


End file.
